The Daughter Of Elves And Men
by Annaicuru
Summary: Half-elf who is involved in the War of the Ring; and must decide to which kindred she truly belongs. Legomance but overall action. Mostly Tolkien's characters but a few new. Please review; constructive criticism welcome. COMPLETE
1. Making A Difference

Anoniel held her friend's hand tightly, and looked into her eyes earnestly. 'Mithmír, my friend, why must you go? You are happy here, are you not?' She looked faintly sad.

The human woman, who appeared to be maybe only in her early twenties, looked wistfully at the elf. Her dark eyes brimmed with regret. 'I cannot stay here, Anoniel. You know as well as anyone just how much wanderlust is in me.' She shrugged her shoulders and took a step back, looking up at the stars. 'There are things happening in Middle Earth, Anoniel, terrible things. You know of them, do not hide from me. But you… elves have much more time than us mortals. You do not need to worry yourself in these affairs, not much. But I…' she paused, searching for words. 'I want to make a difference in the short time I have here. I have to go, friend. I will make for Lothlorien. Apparently, Elrond says, whoever shall be our saviour shall pass that way on their quest…' She paused a little. 'Maybe I will meet them. Who knows, maybe Aragorn himself shall be there.' She smiled, looking back at the elf-maiden. 'He's like an uncle to me. I haven't seen him for a long while, it would be good to meet, and remember old times. Though doubtless,' and she laughed out loud, 'he has some embarrassing stories about me he shall tell everyone in range of his voice!'

Anoniel finally nodded. 'Very well,' she said quietly, and then laughed prettily. 'Just when I thought I was beginning to understand a human, yourself, you go and do something like this and confuse me again! But I see why you want to go, at least in theory. And remember, Mithmír, Rivendell is always open to you.'

'I know,' smiled the human. 'This is my _home_, Anoniel. My mother is here.' Mithmír's mother was an elf, her father a Ranger of the North, a descendent of the Númenórean race. She was half-elven, mostly elf-like in looks but her mind was greatly like that of a human, as shown by her streak of independence and rashness. 'I will leave tomorrow, Anoniel,' she embraced her friend. 'Before any of you are awake. I don't want a leaving party, or unnecessary questions. Imagine Elrond's response to hearing I wanted to save Middle Earth!' She laughed. 'And as for my mother… She never could understand the human side of me.' She shrugged, not sadly, but resignedly. 'Let's go eat, Anoniel. I need a good last dinner. And then I have to make an excuse to get some lembas for my journey…'

It was still dark when she mounted her horse and moved out of the happy valley of Rivendell. She did not look back.

For all that Mithmír was used to travelling, this journey was a hard and long one. Her horse, Brialvastor, was of elven stock, and hardy but speedy. They made good time together, and to any they passed they appeared but as a dark shadow racing through the shadows beneath the trees. All along her lonely road she saw signs of the devastation that was occurring all over Middle Earth: singed trees, crumbling remains of homes long forsaken, great blackened pits in the earth. She once passed a horse-skeleton, and she had little doubt as to the ultimate fate of the luckless rider. She would have stopped to search for the body, to give it a proper burial, but time was short, she felt, and she moved on.

She stopped only for five or six hours a night, and ate sparingly of her lembas; normally eating only the rabbits or small birds she caught during the day. She was never lonely. She felt she never could be, when all the wonders of Elbereth around her. The very trees and plants, the sun itself, and the small animals of the woods fascinated her during the day; and at night the stars, the _elen, _watched over her sleep. For the first part of her journey, at least, no evil things harmed her; though her heart was oft uneasy at the thought of orcs and goblins such as were meant to be spawned in the mountains and wander here. They were definitely about; but as of yet she was of no consequence in the devices of Sauron; and as he gave no orders commanding her death, the foul creatures of darkness avoided her and her flashing, deadly blades.

It was her passage over the Pass of Caradhras which amazed her most. Her last journey over the snow-bound, desolate mountain had been nearly six years before; and she had forgotten the full splendour of the crags, gullies and precipices. One night she watched the snow-giants hurling boulders at each other over the valleys; she was rapt for the entire dark hours and moved out later than she had meant to. Two or three times an eagle circled over head, moving fast across the sky. She wondered at the size and magnificence of the birds so rarely seen; and also pondered on why they might be flying in such numbers. Surely it was significant, her mind told her, but she could think of no reason to explain their presence; and so – for the time – left it at that.

It was on the twentieth day after her departure from Rivendell that she reached the bottom of the Dirmrill Stair, and so saw the placid, glass-like surface of the Mirrormere before her at last. She left Brialvastor to graze while she stripped down and washed in the freezing water. She wanted to reach Lothlorien looking her best. She dried herself on the woollen blanket she normally slept on, and then changed to her 'neat' clothes: the long, white robes and silver circlet that she had inherited from her mother. She rode slower then, and kept her eyes more open: a white rider on a dusk-coloured horse was easily spotted; and she liked not the stories of roaming orcs that she had heard. To keep her mind from the horrors of Sauron, she sang the elven lay of Lúthien and Beren, one of her favourites. It kept her well occupied as the miles disappeared under the steady motion of Brialvastor's mighty hooves, and the dark line of trees that was the Golden Wood drew ever closer.


	2. Old Friends

Thanks for the review Amanda! In theory I've finished this story but it was written the 'traditional' way - with pen on paper. Typing it up is taking ages, but I'm getting there. Great to hear someone's enjoying this. Sorry this chapter's so short.

I left this out of the first chapter, but I'll say it now:

All of these character's belong to Tolkien, and I'm just borrowing.. That obviously doesn't include Mithmír, Anoniel, Tirathnavir and others. I don't own any of them, blah blah blah. Anyone reading this will probably have read enough of these to know the story.

So read! Review! Enjoy!

***

Luckily she reached the borders of Lothlorien easily, with no whiff of any foul creature. As soon as she stepped into the shadow of the first tree, she felt eyes upon her. She dismounted easily, let Brialvastor run free - he came to her call - and moved forward three steps and then threw her head back, looking at the canopy above her eagerly. 'Tirathnavir? Tirathnavir? I know you and Haldir are up there watching me! Lower your bows, elves, and greet a guest like you should!' Few people could be so frank with the First Born, but Mithmír knew them well. 'My horse is tired, and I too am travel-weary. Do not leave me here!'

Two long, thin figures dropped from the trees, their grey cloaks swirling about them so they looked like fallen leaves. They landed like cats, perfectly poised, bows still aimed directly at her. When they knew it was her, they dropped their guard and embraced her, one after the other. The three were old friends, Mithmír having – for a time – grown up with them; though they were many centuries older than she.

The tallest elf, Tirathnavir, spoke first. 'The eagles brought us word from Rivendell you had left, lady grey stone!' The very name Mithmír means "grey stone", and Tirathnavir had always enjoyed calling the woman by the translation.

'They did indeed!' Agreed Haldir. 'They are very worried for you, lady. They feared you would be overcome by the Shadow's foul minions on the road between Rivendell and Lothlorien. We have been for two days worried that was true; when you did not arrive here.'

'Are you implying I went _slowly_?' Joked Mithmír.

'Of course,' said Haldir, with a mock bow. 'But really, friend, they are very worried about you. Anoniel got in much trouble, I hear, for hiding your plans to leave.'

Mithmír felt the anger rising. She kicked a stone in anger, not noting that it hit the dead centre of a tree trunk twenty feet away. 'How _dare _they? It isn't Anoniel's fault, it was _mine_. She was helping a friend! And with my bow and longsword I am well prepared for any surprise attack by a band of goblins or orcs!'

'Calm, lady,' Tirathnavir said, laying a gentle hand on her arm. 'They do naught but care for you.'

'Too much,' she muttered angrily. 'They treat me like a _child_, Tirathnavir!'

'By our reckoning you are,' reminded Haldir. Then his face brightened considerably. 'Ah well, you are here now. And the Lady Galadriel refused their wish to have you escorted back. She wants to see you herself. _She_ does not believe you are a child, Mithmír. She believes you shall as of yet have your chance, if you wish it, to help in the cause against Sauron.'

'And wish it I do!' Agreed Mithmír, mostly happy, but still seething at the way all the Elves insisted on babysitting her like a mere babe in arms. She followed her friends over the Nimrodel river, exchanging tales and news with them all the while.


	3. In Caras Galadhon

Well here's the _third_ chapter! Finally! Unfortunately Fanfiction.net is updating my chapters pretty slowly, so be patient – not that any of you aren't anyway.

If I've missed any reviews, thanks for them. I really appreciate the fact that people can be bothered to come and read my stories.

***

Mithmír met the Lady Galadriel late that eve. She was taken to Caras Galadhon late that night, when the light of the stars was brightest. The forming dew made the elanor flowers sparkle like dropped jewels, and the mallorn trees swayed a little in the light breeze. There were many elves there, in the main "city" of the place. Some sang, some played harps or flutes, some danced, and many just talked. The mood of the place was so peaceful it quieted all her fears, at least for a while.

Tirathnavir led her to the meeting-hall, which consisted of but a roof and pillars, where she would meet the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn, her husband. Mithmír was nervous, despite her peaceful composure, and fiddled with the sleeve of her white robe. Tirathnavir noticed, and smiled kindly.

'Few are so calm as you, grey-stone, when they are about to meet the Lord and Lady.'

Mithmír smiled a little, relaxing. 'My thanks for that, friend.' The elf bowed deeply, and then led the way again. Mithmír noticed he walked slower, giving her time to prepare herself for the meeting. She was thankful again, but this time said nothing. She tried to think peaceful thoughts, envisaged how the meeting would be – but all the while she could not forget that this was something she had dreamed of all her life.

Tirathnavir stepped under the pavilion-hall before her, and said in his lilting voice, 'my Lord Celeborn and my Lady Galadriel, may I present to you Mithmír, the daughter of elves and men, ranger of the North, of the line of Númenor.'

It was when he stood aside, and motioned her forward, that Mithmír had her first sight of the beautiful Lady of Lothlorien, who had seen so many ages past, and would see many more. She was dressed in the purest white, but it shimmered silver and gold as it moved in the candle light. Her crown was of twining silver, and on her finger was a Ring of Power, one of the Elven Three. Celeborn stood beside her, tall and stately, but his shoulders drooped a little, as if he bore a great weight. Mithmír dropped to her knees in awe, bowing her head as was proper – and natural.

'My Lord and Lady,' she said breathlessly.

'Stand up, Mithmír, grey jewel,' the Lady ordered gently. The woman obeyed soundlessly, staring – while trying to be polite – at these magnificent, ancient elves.

'Do you know why we summoned you here?' Asked Celeborn, his eyes bearing into her.

She shook her head, and instantly she felt another presence inside her mind. _You do know_, a voice said. It was Galadriel, definitely, but more sinister, more a being of power. _I can see, Mithmír. Lie not to me. You are powerful for a mortal, and I but wish to help you, but there is no time to waste_.

Before Celeborn could speak, Mithmír broke in. 'I do know, in fact, Lord. You wish to let me play my part in delivering all of Middle Earth from the Shadow that looms.'

Celeborn looked at her oddly, but nodded, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed the Lady Galadriel nodded too, lightly.

'In two or three days,' continued Celeborn, 'the Fellowship of the Ring are due to arrive. Do you know of them?'

'No,' admitted Mithmír, instantly interested.

Celeborn was about to speak but Galadriel, calm as always, came forward and took Mithmír by the hand. 'Will you come to the eve meal with us, mortal? It is a long tale, and the telling should not be cut short.' So the three departed for the clearing where the meal was to be had, and that night the Daughter of Elves and Men heard a story of bravery and hope for all the peoples of Middle Earth.


	4. Sorrow In The Golden Wood

Thanks for all the reviews. Yeah, this might be getting a bit Mary Sue-ish, but I'll try to stay away from that…. I'll also try to make chapters longer. I've corrected the 'Cradhras/Caradhras' mistake, but it'll take a while to change on Fanfiction.net. The idea of a Balrog ski-resort was pretty funny though…

There are a few things I haven't changed though: one, the orcs still leave her alone on the journey over Caradhras. This is because I can't be bothered to rewrite all of that chapter – yet. Maybe later.

Two: I know half-elves are really rare, but this is a bit of creative license. It could be worse.

The chapters are getting longer, or they will after this one. There was another bit I wanted to put in this chapter, but it was_ huge _and would just make it too big. I'll put it up a.s.a.p. after this one.

***

It was late evening when she heard they had arrived, some days later. It was Tirathnavir who told her, flushed and excited with the wondrous news. 'Mithmír! Mithmír!' He called her, grabbing her hand and lifting her up from where she had been sitting and daydreaming. 'They have arrived; the Fellowship is here! They are being taken to Caras Galadhon tonight, but they stay here for longer than that. Aragorn is here, your kin! He would meet with you, as soon as I said you were here he told me to bid you to meet him at sun-up tomorrow, by their sleeping-tree, which I was to take you to then.' He stopped talking finally, looking eagerly for her reply.

She was silent and still for a long while. Suddenly she hugged Tirathnavir with joy, and shouted loudly, 'at last, Tirathnavir, at _last_! Would you show me their sleeping-tree _now_? Please? Just show it to me, I won't tell you were the one who led me there…' Her pretty brown eyes, deep pools of emotion that reflected the stars in their depths, beseeched him.

He couldn't resist the plea of his life-long friend, the human woman so many centuries younger than himself, who he saw sometimes as a daughter, sometimes as an accomplice. 'Alright,' he smiled. 'Follow me. But be quiet!' Together they moved silently into the trees.

Tirathnavir left her when they first caught sight of the band of adventurers, who were laying out their packs and blankets. She marvelled at them for a long time: so those were _hobbits_, the tiny men. There were four of them; one weeping silently as he unpacked his bag. Her heart yearned for him; and she wondered what tragedy had already befallen the group. There was also two men: one she didn't recognise, but he was tall and handsome, and the other was Aragorn, Elessar, the one who she looked to as an uncle. She barely stopped herself crying out a joyous greeting, but was halted by the sight of a stocky man with a plaited beard. A _dwarf_, in Lothlorien, the Golden Wood! The elven part of her was outraged. Dwarves were the betrayers, the cowards. Her fingers gripped a twig in anger. She moved away, deciding to meet Aragorn the next day, as he had proposed. When she deemed herself to be far enough away, she started running. It was then that she heard it: a deathsong, in Elvish. And it was for… it was for Gandalf! He had fallen into shadow!

She had never met this wizard, the Istari being unfamiliar to her, but in renown every elf came to love Gandalf the Grey. The singing was coming from the very dell she had left. Disregarding manners, she ran back, and joined in the anguished song, which was set to go on for hours. She was almost close enough to touch the hobbit nearest her, but she didn't. It was the crying one. Now she knew the cause of his tears. She carried on singing, remembering the life and passing of a great Maia.

It was then that she saw the only elf of the party; a tall, blonde haired Grey Elf dressed in elven robes. She was amazed at his beauty, and the intelligence in his eyes that brimmed with sorrow. He sang, too, but denied his companion's wish for translation. She envied this stately figure: he embodied he greatest dream: to be an elf true and proper, not just half-elven trapped in a mortal's life.

When the song was over she left, silently, and unbeknownst to her both Aragorn and the Grey Elf noticed her parting.

She made sure that night that she was one who served the travellers at dinner. Tirathnavir was loath to let her do so, but Galadriel – who was keeping oddly close by her – bade him to let her do it if she wanted.

'Won't they realise she's no elf?' He asked.

'Aragorn already knows.' Smiled the Lady Galadriel. 'And to the others she looks mostly elven. Can't you see, Tirathnavir, that as Mithmír grows older she grows to look more like an elf?'

'How do you know what I used to look like?' Mithmír burst out, before blushing profusely for her rudeness. It was true; she had been told so many times; but why would the Lady Galadriel herself keep an eye on her, a lowly Second Born?

Galadriel chuckled. _I know many things, Mithmír, _her presence said without her lips moving. _I have been watching you for a long time, ever since the foresighted Elrond told me one way or another you would play a part in this battle against evil._

Tirathnavir looked in wonder at his friend. She was surprising him all the time; even for mortals who in their short lives changed often. To have a holder of a Ring of Power speak to you telepathically…! He had not heard the words himself but knew by the look in Mithmír's eyes.

'They shall see you as an elf,' resumed Galadriel as if with no pause. 'Except… maybe… the elf prince of Mirkwood, Legolas Greenleaf.' She looked thoughtful for a while, before adding, 'or maybe not.' She looked deep into Mithmír's eyes, and the woman instantly knew that Galadriel was sure of her feelings, denied even to herself, for the mysterious elf from far away. She averted her eyes hastily, bowed, and then followed Tirathnavir away. The Lady Galadriel smiled faintly in the growing dusk, and the ring glittered on her finger.

He noticed her immediately. He recognised her from the second she refilled his cup with the sweet wine of Lothlorien which he had never before tasted, but was strangely familiar. As she leaned past him his eyes moved from her hand, up her arm, to her face. He savoured her strong, determined features; odd for an elf, and the ears were less pointed, but she was definitely elven. Elven and incredibly beautiful; not in the standard sense of the word; but she glowed – in his eyes at least – with some inexplicable _inner _beauty. He was studying her dark eyes when suddenly she pulled away, leaving a full cup behind her, and a trace of elanor-scent on the air.

'My thanks, lady,' he whispered after her. He watched her until she moved around the other side of Boromir to serve him. Legolas felt inexplicably jealous. He tried to quash these feelings, for more serious matters were at hand. He turned to his food.

Aragorn looked at the elf, thousand of years his senior, with surprise. He had no doubt that this prince had no idea of the "elf" woman's real identity. He was torn between the desire to say something and the embarrassed feelings he now harboured. He felt as if he had walked in on something deeply private to Legolas, and maybe later Mithmír. He decided to wait till he talked to Mithmír, daughter of one of his best friends, in the morning. Then he would tackle the problem.


	5. Meeting Under A Mallorn

I said this chapter would be up soon, and here it is! There's not much to say for this one, please just R&R.

The next chapter's on the way too – I'm on a roll here!

***

Mithmír noticed that when the company retired to bed, Galadriel went to her mirror. She had no doubt that the Ring bearer, Frodo, would meet with her that night. She wondered on what they would speak of, but wisely decided not to try and find out. The Ring that everyone was talking of held disastrous powers over the minds of beings, especially Men. She didn't want to subject herself to that, at the risk of being taken over. She had to remind herself that she was at more risk than any of her elven friends, and had to act accordingly. That was why she went to sit beneath her favourite mallorn tree. It was separate from the others, far enough away from the other elves so that the sounds of their merriment was barely a light murmur. She went there to think, and to be alone, and to ponder Elbereth and her wonders.

Legolas went wandering too. He left the company of the Fellowship on the grounds of needing to visit the other elves, but he spent but a little time among them. In fact, all he did was hear a few songs before tiring of the constant questions and odd looks. He made his excuses to the elven folk – saying he wanted to sleep – and then wandered away into the woods, aimlessly, but at the same time having an odd feeling that he was being pulled forward for some purpose. He began to sing, quietly, a song to Elbereth. The night was beautiful and clear; allowing him to all but forget his troubles.

Mithmír jumped to her feet. She heard the singer coming closer to her special place, and she knew who it was, too… She could wait till he got here, but she could never lie and say she hadn't heard him: she was half-elf, after all: her hearing should be exceptional. Wearily she got up, and called out:

'Legolas Greenleaf?'

He stopped singing. That voice… he recognised it from the singing before. He ran forward to the glade with cat-like agility, not making a sound. He looked through the cover of the leaves, checking who it was. Yes, it was most definitely her, with a red cloak draped over her white best-dress finery to keep the dirt from it. He smiled despite himself, then remembered he was a prince and should behave accordingly. Just like Mithmír, he was bound sometimes by what he though he _should _be. Coughing to announce his presence, he stepped into the shade of the mallorn tree, a particularly magnificent one he noticed. She saw him and blushed before dropping a curtsy. 'Prince,' she acknowledged.

'My Lady,' he said and bowed. 'May I ask your name?' His smile was genuine, she noted, and she relaxed a little.

'Mithmír,' she replied truthfully – but not _all _the truth. 'My father is a… wanderer. My mother is of the High Elves.'

Legolas smiled slowly. 'But who are _you_?' He noted her puzzlement, and explained: 'I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, son of an elf-maiden. _I myself _am Legolas Greenleaf, Sindarin elf, prince of Mirkwood, and member of the Fellowship of the Ring – which doubtless you know.'

She thought for a while, and then said, 'then I am Mithmír. No more, no less.'

'Better,' he admitted with a chuckle, and to her surprise sat down on the grass and took her hand to bring her down beside him. 'So tell me,' he said, not looking at her but at a small bird that had landed before them, 'what the elves here know of our Fellowship?'

She looked at him oddly, finding the question unusual, and finally said slowly, 'I don't know. Maybe… I personally know only what the Lady Galadriel told me.'

'Which is how much, lady?'

She blushed at being addressed with such courtesy. 'Only the facts.' Suddenly anger brimmed up in her, and she felt – though she could not explain why – that she could share her feelings with this elf. 'They treat me as a child, carefully telling me only what they want me to hear. No elf is allowed, by Celeborn, Elrond and Galadriel's order, to tell me the full truth of what is coming from Mordor. When I was younger I lived free, for I had no interest in this, but now my wonder is kindled and I try to find out, they hide more and more!' Tears of frustration came to her eyes, and she pounded her hands on the turf.

For a while the elven prince didn't know what to say. He was unused to such shows of emotion. And, too, he realised that no elf would have created such a display. The woman beside him was human, but why then did she look so much like one of the Fair Folk? He slowly turned his head and realised she was looking at him. Their eyes met, and he held the gaze for a long time. This mortal intrigued him.

'Do they see you as young because you are a mortal?' He said softly, not accusingly, but with understanding.

She blushed furiously, realising what she had just given away. 'Yes. But I'm not _all _mortal! My father is, yes, but my mother is Mallómë, an elf as I told you!' The tears flowed steadily. 'My father is a man of high line, too, a man of Númenor!'

'A Ranger of the North, like Aragorn?'

'Yes,' she said, 'and one of his good friends. Aragorn is like my uncle, and so I would address him.'

Legolas understood her woe, as elves have the gift of great empathy. 'You feel inadequate to fulfil your dreams as a mortal,' he said, factually, 'and you wish to be all elven as your mother was.' He nodded slowly, and then looked at her again. His eyes were sincere. 'Mithmír, you are wonderful as you are. Ilúvatar himself made you so, and in his work there is a purpose none of us can yet discern.' His words were wise, and Mithmír knew so, but they were still bitter to hear. 'You cannot change what you are.'

She got up suddenly, wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, and wiped the grass off the back on her cloak. 'I shouldn't have kept you here, lord,' she apologised politely and briskly, covering up the anguish she felt in her heart. 'Doubtless you have more important things to attend to. And you should get some sleep. I will be meeting with Aragorn tomorrow morn, and I will see your Fellowship off. Mayhap we will meet again then.' She curtsied, and then dashed out of the clearing.

Legolas Greenleaf was left behind, wondering after the disillusioned maiden who had so intrigued him.


	6. Freeing The Bird From Its Cage

Back again! This story's being written faster than most people can read it!

I say this on every entry, but: R&R, please! Constructive criticism welcome; especially if it's on some thing like the proper use of certain weapons (that comes in later).

Enjoy

***

'I will not hear of it!' Aragorn shouted. Some birds burst up from the undergrowth and flew away noisily. 'I made a promise to your father, Mithmír, that I would keep you safe and out of danger! I will _not _let you come with us!' The two humans faced off with each other, each holding their ground, unwilling to back down.

'Why must you always treat me as a child!' screamed Mithmír, flinging her bow to the ground. 'When will I be free to be myself and make my own decisions?'

'Your parents love you, girl!' Aragorn retorted. 'All they wish is for you to be safe. This is not a woman's work, what we must do!' He regretted saying it as soon as he saw her face. She was no longer strong and rebellious, but deeply hurt and crushed.

'I was never good enough as an elf, or a human,' she whispered sadly. 'And now I am not good enough as a woman. I am not good enough to be independent.' Her eyes beseeched him. 'When shall I be good enough to be _anything_, Aragorn?' She turned and walked away.

'Wait, my friend-daughter,' he cried after her, but she was gone, silently. He shook his head, wishing it could be another way.

He met Legolas on his way back to camp. Surprised, he stopped.

'What are you doing here?' He asked.

Legolas frowned. 'She is deeply hurt, Elessar. I talked with that maiden last eve, and she upset for she feels inadequate.'

'I gathered,' replied Aragorn, but his voice was remorseful. 'I would not have spoken so harshly had I known how much she would care. I cannot let her come, however. Surely you know this, Legolas?'

The elf bowed his head. 'Yes, I know it.'

'Elrond foresaw that she had a part to play,' said Aragorn thoughtfully. 'Maybe she shall do so yet.'

'Maybe you care for her too much,' reminded Legolas. 'Allow her to stretch her wings and fly a little.' He frowned again. 'I fear that she shall do something rash, as humans are wont, now that she has been snubbed.' He shook his head thoughtfully. 'It cannot be helped. But mostly, lord, I came to tell you that Pippin wishes to acquire more lembas for the journey, and he wishes to talk to you about how much we can carry…'

'Hobbits and their food!' Chortled Aragorn. 'Some things never change.'

She went and found Tirathnavir immediately. 'Tirathnavir, my friend, aid me now!'

He dropped the long knives he was cleaning and grabbed her hand in brotherly love. 'What is it, grey-stone, what upsets you so?' He was worried for her, he had never seen her look so _vulnerable_.

She sobbed, her eyes wet, but no tears fell. She pushed him away. 'Find me Brialvastor, Tirathnavir! Please,' she beseeched him with hands upturned. 'May you just do this one thing for me in regards of our long friendship, alike to kinship it was so close!'

He perceived her purpose, and should have declined, but with heavy heart he nodded. Maybe he was wiser than the others, maybe not, but he would be the one to open this maiden's cage and set her free. Whether she flew or fell was her own chance, but one she had to take. 'You get lembas and water for yourself, lady,' he said sadly. 'I will meet you by the banks of the Anduin.' He cried silently, tears not marring his elven beauty but making it more touching. Sorrow was somehow befitting to Elves. 'Take care of yourself, Mithmír. I could not bear to lose you.'

She hugged him in expression of the immense gratitude she felt. 'I owe you a great debt, Tirathnavir, ever faithful friend,' she whispered. 'I shall not forget this, and you shall be repaid.'

With a nod they parted, each heart breaking.

She stood still as the willows around her on the banks of the great river. Tirathnavir had gone, left her with only Brialvastor, whose breath steamed in the air. She wasn't crying anymore. Her choice had been made, and by _herself _this time. She breathed deeply. She felt better than she had for a long time. She stifled the fear that writhed in her belly. She would follow her chosen path to the end, the bitter end if need be. She was a ranger, and now she would do as she had often before: follow weary travellers, unseen, and protect them as she could.

They were given boats by the Lady Galadriel. _So they were to head to Nen Hithoel. _She had a boat there. She could ride with great speed to the lake, and if need be take the boat from there. But her bet was they would head to Mordor, and so she needed only to stay on the West side of the water and they would meet, when it was too late for Aragorn to send her back. She could face his wrath.

She could face anything, as long as it was her free will that made her do it.


	7. A Dream On The Anduin

Thanks _sooooooo _much for the reviews! You're all such great people and it makes me so proud that people actually bother to read and review my stories.

In theory I update this page at least once a day, more if I can, but sometimes I'm just too busy.

Any suggestions etc. welcome. Please read and review!

***

Legolas felt the eyes watching them. Not only Gollum, as he later told Aragorn, but the girl's too. Part of him felt he should tell the future king, but something in him overthrew that idea. Maybe it was the memory of how unhappy she had been… Every now and again he peered around, and once or twice he saw a flash of deeper brown moving between the trees, a horse and rider. He heard hooves on the wind, too faint for the others to hear, but clear to his strong elven ears. He prayed silently for Elbereth to keep this wilful maiden safe – for he also heard the foul cries of orcs, approaching on the Eastern side. The maiden and the foul creatures may have been on opposite sides for now, but he was uneasy at the thought that more may come from the West side. He had terrible visions of traversing the river with archers on either side, raining death down on the vulnerable party.

The boats, slim and elven in design, moved so fast Mithmír had to keep up a steady canter and, at times, a gallop. She praised Brialvastor for his speed and endurance. It was lucky elven horses were the strongest in all of Middle Earth, and even luckier she rode one. Despite her long years of riding, however, her thighs and buttocks still ached. She would have succumbed to the pain and stopped, turned back, were it not for the glimpses of the Fellowship that she caught through the trees on her right. The thought of what she could do to aid their purpose spurred her on.

They travelled with relative ease for a while: she halted when they halted, sleeping little, keeping an eye on them while they were vulnerable. She rested only when it was Aragorn or Legolas' turn to watch; as those two she trusted enough for the job. The hobbits she cared for greatly, and admired, their tales of valour being well known by the elves, but they were not adventurers yet. The dwarf she viewed with great distrust and suspicion.

It was some days later that she saw the orcs on the other side. The company were aware of those ones, she knew, as she heard Legolas discussing it with Boromir in hushed tones when they camped. Her hearing was nearly sharp as an elf's – nearly, but not quite, which was why Legolas was completely aware of her presence. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on Boromir while they spoke, and not let them stray to the other shore where he could make out a dark shape moving. When Boromir was gone to sleep, he made his way to the shore, with the pretence of checking the boats to make sure they did not float away that night. There was no moon, it was dark. The girl – for he was now sure it was, in deed, Mithmír – was gone. He wondered what had happened to her, and a fear filled his stomach. He sensed that orcs were abroad.

'Elbereth, Gilthoniel,' he murmured. 'Protect all souls who wander before the Emyn Muil, Valar.' With that he looked at the foreboding hills, and shivered. The timeless stars, as immortal as the Elves, were far fairer to look upon. Raising his pretty voice in quiet song, he moved away from the silently flowing waters of the Anduin.

She had heard the orcs far before they reached her. She had left Brialvastor on the shore, far behind her, where he could escape on hooves as fleet as the wind if needed. Meanwhile she scaled a tall tree and lay in wait: it was time to go hunting.

The first two orcs didn't know what terrible messenger of death was there, cloaked in darkness. They stumbled through the trees and were felled instantly by a hail of arrows. Mithmír smiled happily: that was good shooting for her. Despite being trained with elves she was no match for them at archery; but she was passable. Two arrows each for two orcs - a respectable total.

The other orcs, hearing the dying cries of their comrades, came more carefully in a group, with primitive shields raised high. She picked of three of the maybe a dozen with her silent arrows, and then sighed. There was no choice for her but to get up close and personal. She loved sword fighting, her two-handed sword was her favourite weapon, but she was not as much of a fool or so proud as to believe the fight would be easy with nine orcs left. She dropped from the tree almost silently on the opposite side from the orcs, who still had no idea where she was. She drew her large sword, which was named _Celebdîn_, silent silver. She had been told the two-handed style of sword was too large, too heavy for a maiden to wield, but it had always been her favourite, and she had persisted in her training with it until she bore it exceptionally well, and as easily as a normal warrior bore a longsword. Her father's people had given her the sword upon her coming of age at eighteen, but it had been the elves who had crafted it. It was blessed indeed.

When she suddenly spun from behind the cover of the trees, the deadly blade of _Celebdîn _cleaved two orc bodies in half before she disappeared behind the cover of the next tree. The foul creatures howled in rage, and followed her in their merciless, shambling gait. When they caught her, the fighting came on thick and fast, swirling around the furious maiden and the flash of darting, biting silver that was her lethal sword. She killed them all, but not without price: on her left arm was a long gash, from her shoulder to midway between her elbow and wrist. She had various smaller cuts on her right leg and back. She returned to Brialvastor on the shore, and from the saddlebags took a long strip of cloth which she tied tightly around the arm to stench the flow of blood. She considered herself lucky that the cut had not been even half an inch deeper: had that been the case, she would have been unable to use the arm well enough to wield the massive weapon, rendering herself defenceless before a troop of orcs. She shivered – it was no good to think on such things.

That night she slept deep beneath the stars, but she was losing more blood than she had thought, and quickly she became icy cold, and tossed and turned violently. She often called out in fear, or pain, as evil dreams wreaked chaos in her mind while it was vulnerable.

__

The dream… she hadn't had it for years and years now, ever since she had been ill with Fireblaze fever in Rivendell so many years ago… She was sick with fear already, knowing what would happen, but unable to run away… It was as if she made no decisions in this dream, but was subjected to the consequences.

She was in a dark room, a cave she knew, and she had come there of her own free will, but she was so terribly afraid… Before her, illuminated by some dim glow from a source she could not make out, was a stone table, quite high, and not so long. It was covered with a cloth of black velvet or something similar, and the material fell in folds to the floor which she could not make out in the gloom. She had a terrifying feeling that that table was reality, she was floating in some infernal abyss, she had to hold onto reality at all costs or be forgotten…

She walked forward, each step hindered by some unseen force, each harder than the last, until she was crying out with the effort. When she finally grasped the cloth it was cold and unforgiving under her fingers, but a "natural" sensation at last. Suddenly she noticed, though she had looked all over the table before, that on its centre stood a tall cup, fashioned of gold and a single green jewel. She knew this was what she wanted more than anything, but what scared her most too. With dread grasping her heart in a cold embrace, she reached out and took it…

It was cold, heavy, unbelievably so… She couldn't drop it, however, her hand held it firmly. The lights went out instantly, she could not see in the utter darkness, she tried to run but she was hindered by unseen obstacles… Voices called from the dark, screams and taunts, indistinguishable cries… Terrible hands gripped her as she tried to pass. She screamed with fear and stumbled on, but suddenly arms enclosed around her, she had run straight into the embrace of some horrifying foe… The tall figure held her close and then they were falling, falling, falling…

Legolas could hear her cries, sense her fear. He wondered again at the deafness of humans, how they slept calmly through the turmoil which took place on but the other side of the shore. Part of him wanted to go to her, help her, but the rest of him denied it. There was a more important duty here, namely his watch. He settled back down to keep silent vigil, but his eyes showed the anguish he felt at the heart-rending cries of terror that he could not help but hear.


	8. Parting Ways

Back again… No too much to say before this one…

***

When she woke up, she felt refreshed, but her arm ached. She washed it in the Anduin's icy waters, and cleaned the bloody cloth too. It stung a little when she bound it again, but it was nothing she couldn't bear: she hoped, however, that she could merely use her daggers in any battle that was still to come. She wasn't sure if trying to wield the heavy _Celebdîn _wouldn't hinder her more than help her. She ate a frugal meal of lembas and water, watched Brialvastor chew on some grass, and after she was ready watched the Fellowship prepare. They were considerably slower than herself. She also looked ahead, down the river, and shivered at the thought of the barren wastes before her. She didn't like to think of how she would hide there.

'I'm glad you're not white, Brialvastor!' She chuckled quietly – a white horse among brown boulders would stand out like a sore thumb. The horse whinnied and flared his nostrils, indignant and glad at the same time that the very reason she liked him _most _was the reason the a good percentage of Elves liked him least. 'Odd animal,' she mused lovingly, and scuffed a stone with her shoe. It skittered down to the waterside, and then fell in with a soft plop.

On the other side, Legolas looked up instantly, staring at the other side of the river, a bit behind them. His sharp eyes caught the movement of the girl as she slipped back into the shadows, drawing her stead after her.

'Legolas? Legolas, help Pippin get that boat in the water,' Aragorn called to him. 'It would help if you kicked out the fire on your way, too.'

Legolas looked at the ranger, and nodded. He kept his eyes on the girl while he followed the future King's bidding. He found Pippin struggling to launch the boat, and kindly lent his weight to the cause. The slim elven vessel slid smoothly into the water.

'My thanks,' said the lively hobbit, and jumped in, making the boat rock violently. Laughing a little, the elf grabbed the edge of the boat and calmed it. Hobbits never ceased to amuse him. 'Take care there, halfling,' he chuckled. 'I do not recall that swimming was hobbits' favourite activity.'

'You're right there, elf,' agreed Pippin with a queasy look at the flowing liquid about him. 'But then, I'm getting used to many new things on this journey.' He was ever-optimistic, and smiled brightly.

Legolas couldn't help but have his mood be cheered by this.

'Then we go on, brave wandering hobbit!' He cried, and leaped into his own canoe.

For the next few days, they saw nothing of Mithmír – or at least, Legolas did not. The others still knew not that she followed them. He became worried for the fiery maiden, even more so after the Orc attack by the Sarn Gebir rapids. He knew that there was little or no water apart from the Anduin in these regions, and he doubted she would have carried enough water with her to last many days of travelling. When they reached the Gates of Argonath, he gave up all but the tiniest flame of hope. While the paddled into Nen Hithoel, he sang a quiet song for the protection and deliverance of travellers; both in Arda and into the after life of Men. Aragorn was the only one to understand it, and he assumed, incorrectly, it was sung for the Fellowship's benefit.

Legolas still didn't correct him, and oddly enough the guilt he had felt before was gone: he knew he had made the right decision in not telling the man.

They slept that night by Parth Galen, and the rest, as they say, is History, as told by the wisest of Men and Elves.

She followed them, Sam and Frodo, from Nen Hithoel. Her heart was screaming from the death of Boromir, but her face was stern. She said "good bye" to the ever-faithful Brialvastor above the Emyn Muil; as she could not hope to descend them with a horse to lead. She left the stallion by Amon Lhaw, and told him to run free and wild, but to come to her call if she ever needed him again. Then she kissed the brown of his forehead, said an Elven blessing for him, and departed.

Till the end of February she followed Sam and Frodo without flaw in her plans. They never knew she was there, and she never assisted them. Gollum was the only grave mistake; he having come to them from the other direction, and in the scuffle she could never tell the difference between the hobbits and the foul creature, so she never dared fire an arrow. She trusted they had him under control later, and also some strange feeling stayed her from killing the beast. Later she accredited it to the Valar, for surely they had been merciful and guiding.

She disliked travelling by foot even at the best of times, and over the Nindalf marshes was her idea of life at its very worst – though how wrong she would later realise she had been! She followed a long way behind Gollum, Sam and Frodo; trying to keep in sight of them while being far enough back so that they could not see her. The elven cloaks from Lothlorien did not make her task any easier. When she emerged from the stinking mud later that day, she was coated in filth and slime; and her skin was dotted with red marks that were insect bites. She renamed the place so many names in her mind; none of them pleasant, but all truthful. When she felt a little better she moved on, making sure she travelled a little south of the hobbits and the "creature", as she had taken to calling him in her mind. She caught up with them a little too; her long legs still a major advantage. Her fresh food ran out on what she counted as the fourth of March.


	9. The Black Gates

Legolas is gone… Depressed…

Thanks for the reviews! I will keep on trying to add more to this every night. I have to speed up and get Legolas back!

***

The Black Gates. Never in her most tortured nightmares had she ever dreamed she would see this place of dread. _The Morannon_. The ugly word crowded her mind, fear clutched at her limbs and made her weak. She could not take her eyes of the terrifying, fortified, black walls, and the malformed shapes of guards upon them. She shivered right to the core of her being, and then looked ahead. The hobbits, and the creature. They had stopped too, a way before her, nearly concealed from her by the rise of the low hill which they were already on the lower slopes of. She could dimly make out whispered conversation. She called out, barely more than a whisper, in the Quenya tongue:

'Save me, Lady Elbereth! Let not a mere half-mortal be forced to follow into the Dark Lord's realm!'

She knew not to who she called, nor whom she hoped to answer, but she felt better for having voiced her fears. Some weight lifted from her shoulders, she could stand a little taller and raise her eyes. The hobbits have moved on.

'Thank the Valar!' She whispered, with her eyes upraised in joy. They should not have to pass that terrible way! A little part of her thought, _but then where _shall _they pass? _but it was ignored, for now. There were hobbits to track. She shifted the weight of her pack a little, and then followed after her – unknowing – charges, the hobbits Sam and Frodo, as well as the creature Gollum.

They travelled along the side of the Ephel Dúath for many days. The mountains were grim and foreboding on their left. Mithmír felt more weary than she could ever remember having felt before. Every footstep was a struggle, and she no longer kept an extra watch on the hobbits at night. Her eyes closed of their own accord even in the mere seconds she halted to catch her breath. She wondered that the hobbits could continue so strong for so long. And in her dreams, a quiet, beautiful, powerful voice whispered to her: _come to me, maiden. Come to me and they shall never treat you as a youth again. They shall call you their Lady… You should save them all, with me on your finger. The hobbits are too small to stop you… _She began to wonder whether she really was a help to the hobbits. She decided, reluctantly, that she would leave them if the call of the Ring became too strong.

It was the sixth of March, and the hobbits were resting in a little glade of trees. She was far-off from them, resting, and chewing away at some lembas though her mouth was almost too tired to eat. Gollum was wandering away, and Sam had gone to find some food; perhaps mushrooms; and water. Privately Mithmír wished him luck: this land, once called Ithilien, was now a barren waste in the shadow of Mordor: she sincerely doubted anything nourishing lived or grew here.

She was lying down, eyes closed, one hand on her sword, her cloak beneath her, when she heard a gasp. Her eyes flicked open, wide orbs of brown, and she sat up – to find a dagger, inexpertly but effectively, pressed against her neck. A hobbit, the fair-haired Sam, she noticed, was standing above her. His eyes were wild with fear, too.

'What are you?' He asked, his voice shaking a little. One shake was so large, it cut a small slit on her throat, and a trickle of blood dripped down her tanned skin. The cut was only skin-deep, which was lucky, more a scrape than a wound. The hobbit gasped a little, and stilled his hand, but didn't pull away. Mithmír could see his intense desire to protect his master, and oddly she found herself respecting this fierce, faithful halfling.

'I am Mithmír,' she said calmly, though her heart was beating. 'The daughter of elves and men. Aragorn, Strider to you, is my uncle.' It was a tiny lie, but as good as true. The hobbit nearly relaxed, but caught himself just in time.

'Prove it,' he said firmly. 'Prove to me you are who you say you are.'

'I am lying on an elven cloak,' she said slowly. 'From Lothlorien, where I often stay. There is lembas and elven rope in my pack on the ground. On my wrist, if you lift my cloak, is a bracelet of silver, with an inscription in Elvish, which reads, _we friends will follow you to the Void and back, to the empty wastes of Eriador, and to wherever your destiny takes you. _It was a gift from three elves: two you don't know, Anoniel and Tirathnavir; and one you do, who is called Haldir. And I can speak the name of Elbereth with no fear, but love.'

The hobbit nodded, took note of these things, and finally released his hold on the knife, slipping it into its sheath. 'Tell me why you are here, kin of Strider.'

'I followed you to protect you from afar,' she said truthfully, massaging her sore neck. The hobbit muttered apologies, she brushed them aside. 'I felt it was my duty. Aragorn did not want me to come; so though I followed you from Lothlorien, I did not show myself. I will not stay with you long,' she said in a hurry, 'for the Ring… it _calls _me…'

The hobbit's eyes widened in disbelief. 'You know of _it_?' He asked breathlessly.

'Yes,' she said with a blush. 'The Lady Galadriel deemed it safe to tell me, though she has been proven at least partially wrong.'

'I believe you,' said the hobbit slowly. 'I don't know why, but I do. It's not only the evidence, it's a… a feeling in my stomach, I _know _you are who you say you are. But if you try to hurt my master,' his voice was suddenly stern, 'I'll… I'll… I'll flay you alive!'

'Elbereth protect me!' Laughed the woman, standing up. 'Now then, do I get to meet his master of yours or no? I have followed you for many days, little man, and I have dearly wished to be properly introduced to the Ringbearer.'

'Do you trust yourself to come closer to _it_?' Asked Sam suddenly, his eyes sombre. 'You are half-human, are you not? Can the kin of Men, especially the kin of Isildur, _ever _be trusted near it?'

She looked deep into his eyes, and her look was sad. She bowed her head. 'I can be trusted a little more than other Men,' she said quietly, 'for I am also elven. And you trusted Aragorn, did you not? He is closer to Isildur than I. I can be trusted, hobbit, for now at least. Later I should not, but for this time I can be.'

'Your word shall do… for now,' Sam nodded. 'My master's through this way… Leave your weapons!' Mithmír obeyed quickly, dropping the sword, and taking off the cloak. She took her daggers from her belt and laid them on the ground.

'There, servant of Frodo. The only weapons I have left are my fists.'

Sam eyed her once again, but as before his heart told him she was true, at least for now.

'Follow me then, lady.'

***

Ahhh, sweet little hobbits. ---- Annaicuru


	10. The Ringbearer

Here's the tenth chapter! Hope you enjoy it.

Please R&R

***

Frodo nodded wearily, his eyes wide with wonder, the only part of him which looked even remotely lively. He noticed Sam's anguished gaze for approval, and said, 'you did well, Sam. Don't trouble yourself any more on the matter. She's truthful, you can see it in her eyes. And she spoke the name of Elbereth readily, and no evil creature can speak that name.' He turned to Mithmír. 'You cannot stay with us long, lady. I could not bear to be responsible for leading another into the shadow that is the dark land. That peril is mine alone to bear.' He sighed.

He struck her as very wise and learned, and her respect for him was great. 'I agree, Master Frodo. We Men are not made of as sterner stuff as you hobbits. I cannot resist _its _power for too much longer. But pray, may I ask you: how do you plan to enter Mordor?' She shivered at the word.

Frodo's eyes showed intense pain for awhile. Just when Mithmír thought an answer was not forthcoming, he replied. 'Gollum says there is a way, a hidden way.'

'Do you trust him?' Asked Mithmír, incredulous.

'Yes,' said Frodo softly. 'Yes, I do. Gandalf… Gandalf once said to me that he believed the poor wretch still had some part to play, for good or ill, in the things that were to come. I did not believe him then, but now…' he shrugged helplessly. 'It _must _be true, don't you see?' His eyes looked for reassurance. He had been making the decisions for too long.

Oddly bold, Mithmír laid her hand on the hobbit's stooped shoulder. 'I believe you, Master Frodo. But I shall not hide from you that he fills me with disgust and dread.'

'And I too,' said Sam, before blushing as he realised he'd contradicted his beloved master. 'Of course, whatever Mr Frodo thinks is right.'

'I'm sure of it,' agreed Mithmír. 'Your master is a wise… hobbit, Sam Gamgee.'

'And I knows it,' nodded Sam. There was a little silence, not awkward but completely still, before Sam broke out: 'well damn and blast it, where _is _that Gollum creature? He's been gone a long while now.'

'Maybe the sight of a tall person has scared him away,' observed Mithmír realistically. 'It would be quite a shock for him to see me here with you.'

'Yes,' said Frodo quietly, 'and no. He will come back, hissing and complaining, but return he will. You'll not keep him from _it_, lady.' He looked at her for a while, and then said: 'you'll travel with us from now on, then?'

'Yes, by your leave, Master Frodo,' agreed Mithmír. 'But I won't sleep in your camp. I do not trust myself to be so close to the Ring when you are asleep and vulnerable, even now when I judge myself to be mostly trustworthy. I could wake in madness from some horrible dream, and slay you all while you still slumber.'

'Very well,' sighed Frodo. 'But do not say _its_ name here, Mithmír. This is too close to Sauron for that.' He looked around, as if feeling threatened. Sam noticed this and intervened.

'Well, Mr Frodo, sir, if you don't mind me saying so, we must move on now. Doubtless that foul guide of ours will catch us up in due time.'

'Alright,' said Frodo distantly.

'I'll get my pack and meet you here in a minute,' Mithmír said. 'Do not leave without me.'

As she dashed away, her elf hearing distinctly heard Sam muttering; 'as if we would! Why, Mr Frodo, Men always astound me, even if they _are _like Aragorn.'

'Yes, she is like him,' agreed Frodo. 'So much so… but then, she is like the elves too.' A glimmer of a smile flitted over his exhausted face. 'The elves, Sam… Do you remember their songs, in Rivendell and Lothlorien?'

'Yes, sir,' huffed Sam in reply as he packed, 'remind me tonight, and I'll get that lady to sing some for you.'

'That will be nice,' agreed Frodo distantly. Then he shook his head and stood up. Mithmír was back. 'Let's move on then. Mithmír, fair Elf Lady, would you care to lead the way?'


	11. Wanderer Ambushed

Not much to say, again, but _please please please _Read&Review!

Happy reading!

***

She met Gollum later that night, for they were travelling under the dim light of the stars and moon. It was a hissing, moaning affair, and the creature himself was even more detestable close up than he was from afar. Gollum hated her right from the start, she knew, and hated her with a vengeance. He calmed down outwardly after a while, but he glanced at her evilly while they travelled. She chose not to bother Sam and Frodo with the occurrences; it appeared to be the last thing they wanted. Frodo looked weak and troubled, he leaned on Sam both physically and emotionally. She wished greatly for Brialvastor, but decided against summoning her horse to a place so close to the dark land. He was too dear to her for that.

It was nearly morning when they left the path at last and came to a small lake. It was secluded deep in a beautiful forest, which showed blissful little evidence of the evil nearby. The very air was fresh; and she drank it like a rich wine, feeling it invigorate her body and mind, clearing her head so she could think straight. After the party had drunk a little – all but Gollum, that is, - they moved on. Sam and Frodo found a place to sleep, in some fern, and Sam got Gollum to fetch a rabbit for him – after some pleading and wheedling.

Frodo fell almost instantly asleep, and she sat beside Sam and looked at the hobbit, so calm in sleep. She pitied him greatly, then, for how much had been asked of him. A great restlessness grew in her, however, while Sam cooked his herbs on the carefully-made fire, which produced no smoke. Finally she got up, and drew her elven cloak about her.

'Sam,' she explained, 'I am going for a wander. I shall take my sword and daggers, and my bow and arrows too, for I fear something is not right in these woods. I should be back soon. Take care of yourself, and Frodo. If you desperately need me later, and there is nothing else to be done, call my name, and I shall spring to your side.'

'Alright, lady,' said Sam, wondering at how strong and bold she looked in the early-morning light below the trees.

She moved away silently, blending perfectly into the forest so soon nothing could be seen of her. First she made her way to the lake, and then past it. Suddenly she felt so much joy in her that she broke into a run, skipping over bush and log, stopping to smell pretty flowers or wonder at some passing animal or call of an unusual bird. She had not felt so happy since leaving Lothlorien.

Her guard was down when they appeared: six tall men, dressed in brown and green clothes for warfare, carrying swords. They sprang from all around her, jumping out of the cover of bushes and trees, surrounding her completely.

'Halt, wanderer in Ithilien!' One called in the Common tongue.

She didn't think. All she felt was a threat to her and her friends, and she had left them far away. Even now they might be being similarly attacked… She drew _Celebdîn _from its sheath, and with a cry of battle attacked the nearest man to her. She didn't mean to kill, merely to disable, and that was what she did: her first hit was with the flat side of the sword, directly on his shinbones. She heard something crack nastily, and with a cry he fell to the floor. She was raising the blade to move over to the next man when it was struck from her hand. Barely pausing she raised her fists and pummelled the next man with a volley of punches, while her foot lashed up and kicked away his weapon. She carried on attacking, violently and in blind rage, until something hard hit her on the head.

She blacked out, but only for a second, until she hit the ground. There was muttering around her: 'what do we _do _with the wildcat?' 'Take her to the Lord Faramir.' 'She attacked us wilfully! She deserves to die.' But the leading voice, that of an older man, won the argument. 'There'll be no killing here. Tie her up and we'll lead her before Faramir, see what _he _has to say about her.' The others agreed, some more reluctantly than others.

She still couldn't move. One of them, she realised, was holding her down. She cursed at him fluently in Quenya, calling him all the vile names she could think up. 'An elf!' The men wondered, but no more was made of it: they tied her, still struggling, at the wrists, so they were firmly behind her back.

A man loomed up before her. He helped her to her feet, and her face was not unkind. 'Now, lady,' he said, 'as long as you behave there'll be no more trouble here…' She spat in his face, and brought up a knee firmly into his groin. He moaned a little, but was remarkably composed. He stared at her in anger for a while, and then ordered, 'have her gagged too, then, as she wont co-operate. Iolomor, Provar,' he motioned to two men, 'you hold her between you while we walk. Cather, you ready your arrow and aim it at her. Lady,' he warned gravely, 'if you try to run, this man will shoot. That I can guarantee. And Cather is a _very _good shot.'

She nodded slowly. She felt tears brimming, tears of helplessness, but she held them back, determined to be brave. Then a man behind her kicked her in the back of the legs cruelly, and she stumbled forward awkwardly. The lead man picked up her sword, and carried it after them.


	12. The Rangers Of Ithilien

Arrghhh, the chapter's too long! No free time to cut it down, sorry.

Excuse my very bad Sindarin. Any corrections welcome and I'll change it a.s.a.p!

Finally some characters other than hobbits!

Hope you're enjoying this. Please R&R.

***

They reached the clearing after nearly an hour of slow, degrading march. The tears were still held back, but she acquired new wounds: deep gashes on her elbows, where she had fallen and been unable to catch herself. Her knees bore the same fate, but not so badly. The leader of the party – Firmin was his name – berated her guards for dropping her, and they apologised both to her and to him, but she still received many sly kicks on the way. She later learned Iolomor and Provar were not bad men, but angered by her previous actions. The man she had felled, Unkirdon, was being carried by his comrade Greforlan. His shins were both broken badly.

The clearing was full of men dressed in the same way as her captors, and in their centre was seated a man who held himself tall, as if noble, and his eyes glowed with wisdom. Before them, and she nearly choked as she saw it, were Frodo and Sam. Little did she know that they had already proved the captain, Faramir as she rightly guessed, of their identities, and were already safe. She thought they were doomed to death, and that it was her fault.

The captain looked up immediately at their approach. 'What bring you here, Firmin?' He asked, while men rushed to help Unkirdon.

'We found this maiden wandering in the area of the lake,' explained Firmin reverently. 'She attacked us without provocation, and attacked Unkirdon causing terrible harm.'

'I can see,' said Faramir, eyeing Mithmír warily. 'Why is she so gagged and bound? Surely you could handle a single girl?'

Mithmír's eyes flashed in anger, but she could not cry out because of the cloth tied around her mouth.

'She is strong, lord, and an elf,' said Firmin with lowered eyes. 'We feared for our safety. We had not choice but to restrain her.'

Faramir nodded slowly, and then turned to the hobbits. 'Do you know this woman, Frodo?'

'Why _ye_-' began the innocent Sam, before seeing Mithmír's frantic shaking of her head. Then he blushed, and said 'oh' quietly. Frodo nudged him and whispered, 'it's all right Sam. No harm done.'

'Oh but there _is_!' Sam cried, forgetting his place again. 'See her arms, and the cuts in the cloth on her legs? Why, they've _hurt _her Mr Frodo, sir! And see the blood on her head!' He fumed with anger, and put his hands indignantly on his hips. 'Well, Mr Faramir, I hope you can explain this, attacking an innocent traveller!'

'Innocent she may be,' said Faramir with a wry smile, 'but nevertheless she attacked one of my soldiers. I cannot let this go unnoticed.' He turned to Firmin. 'Take off her gag.' The man obeyed hastily. Mithmír spat once before speaking.

'What right have you to have done this to me, "Lord" Faramir? What did I do to deserve this?'

In this moment Faramir noticed how strong her face was, how defiant her pose, and how brave and bold she was in the face of danger. His mind was filled with pity and respect, both at once, and he came to her himself and untied her bounds. 'There, my Lady,' he said graciously. 'Forgive us, but you took us quite by surprise.'

Mithmír nodded, and then turned on Sam. 'Sam, you silly hobbit, _why _did you say you knew me? Oh, you've messed this up now!'

'Do not be so harsh on your companion, Lady,' warned Faramir. 'He did the right thing. Had he not vouched for you, I would have been forced to have you killed; for you wilfully attacked a man of Gondor.'

'Oh,' said Mithmír, somewhat lamely. 'Well, thank you, Sam.' She suddenly felt very small.

'That's alright, lady,' he said kindly.

'So who are you then, warrior maid?' Asked Faramir from his chair once again.

'I am Mithmír, the Daughter of Elves and Men, Ranger of the North.' She said in a stately way. 'Both Lothlorien and Imladris, or Rivendell, I can call my homes.'

There was a murmur of wonder in the crowd of assembled men. Here before them was an elf, a thing of fantasy and story! Here was one who talked of the fabled Golden Wood with easy familiarity!

'And why are you here?'

She didn't answer, setting her jaw firmly. She didn't know how much the hobbits had told. A man from behind her, the best friend of the one she had injured badly, kicked her hard in the square of her back. With a gasp she fell to her knees.

Frodo's anger was uncontrollable. 'How dare you do that to an elf and a lady?' He asked incredulously. 'I thought the men of Gondor were renowned for their valour in combat and their manners at home?'

Faramir stood up, and his face was grave to behold. 'Those sayings are true of our race, Frodo, or so I should like to believe. Greforlan, help the lady up. _Politely_. She is our guest, and an honoured one at that.'

Mithmír felt a hand, forced into gentleness, take hers, and helped her up. The man let go of her, and then bowed low. 'I beg your pardon for my rudeness: I am blinded by my worry for my companion.'

She curtsied back on shaky legs, and then said to the man as well as the rest of the company: 'I am sorry for the harm I did to the ranger Unkirdon; but I was worried for the safety of my charges, the hobbits, and acted rashly without thought. Forgive me.'

'In your words I perceive two things,' said Faramir quickly. 'Firstly, that you are a lady of high rank, for your manners proclaim so. Secondly your reason for travelling: to protect these hobbits from any danger that might befall them. Am I right?' His eyes met with hers, and held her gaze, until she nodded and replied in the affirmative. 'That is good then!' He said, and sprang up to his feet.

'As I have said to the hobbits, you shall accompany us, if you please, to our camp which is South of here, maybe an hour or three's journey.'

She looked at the hobbits, who nodded that it was alright. 'Very well,' she said with a small smile. 'I will come with you – as long as I am treated with respect, as your reputation says I will.'

The Lord Faramir frowned a little, before saying, 'you shall be treated with all the respect we can give, Lady Elf.' She should have corrected him, but she didn't. The title sounded good to her ears. 'But, our camp is a well-kept secret of Ithilien. It is not that we don't trust you, but we must order that if you come with us, _and _your hobbit friends, you shall be blindfolded.' Mithmír was shocked and silenced. Faramir must have noticed her horror, for he blushed a little, and said: 'don't fear, my lady, I shall have Tafol here guide you: he is one of my most trusted men.'

She nodded a little.

'Don't worry, lady, if you need us, all you need do is shout.' Sam said in his stout, kindly way.

'My thanks, master hobbit,' she said with a grim laugh. Then she moved her hand perceptibly away from her hip where her dagger was sheathed. 'I trust you, man of Gondor,' she said to Faramir, staring him boldly in the eyes. 'But if you harm a single hair of my companions,' she warned, 'your fate shall be decided: to die on my blade.'

He nodded sincerely. 'And I should accept that fate, lady, for I should deserve it.'

'Then blindfold me first, and then Sam, and Frodo last. That way it shall be proved it is safe.' Faramir nodded to a tall, lean, older man with already greying hair. The man stepped before her, and he was holding a long brown cloth. 'Your pardon, lady,' he said with a bow, and then carefully tied the blindfold firmly around her eyes. She sensed rather than felt his slight flinch of amazement as his hands passed her pointed ears. It made her smile. The man then touched her shoulder softly, telling her he stood to her right side. She already knew this information from her quick hearing, but she thanked him quietly anyway.

There was a long pause with but murmurs of voices while the hobbits were blindfolded, and then Faramir's clear voice proclaimed, 'we march!' And her guard, the man Tafol, took her right arm gently and led her along. His pace was a little slower than she liked, obviously calculated for a maiden's strength. She wanted to laugh: these men, even though they well knew the trials she had faced, still managed to trick themselves into believing that they were stronger than her. Somehow, she promised herself, she would prove her worth to them.

Her keen senses were working all the time she walked; and because of her lack of vision her other four senses were working extra well, or so it seemed. She soon became aware of the smell of blood coming from Tafol's clothing.

'Pulim pedna le?' _May I talk with you?_ She asked in Elvish, without thinking to speak in anything other than her mother-tongue. She sensed the man's pause of shock, before he replied slowly and steadily with remarkable composure.

'I am afraid few men of Gondor speak Elvish anymore, my Lady Elf.'

'I merely asked,' she said, painfully aware of her growing blush, 'if I may speak to you? Or does the Lord Faramir want me to be silent?' There was no sarcasm in her voice.

'Why of course, fair lady,' replied the man evenly. 'But first may I be so bold as to say this: that the Elven speech is even more fair than the stories tell it to be.'

'Nín hannad,' _My thanks, _she said in Elvish, smiling. She sensed that he saw and was pleased. 'It means "thank you".'

He tried to repeat it; clumsily in her eyes but doubtlessly skilled in the eyes of Men.

'Mae agor.' She smiled. 'Very good. Now then, Tafol, may I speak with you on urgent matters? Or at least,' she reconsidered, 'they _may _be urgent, depending on your answer.'

'Aye,' he said gruffly, but without malice or unkindness.

'Why is there blood on your clothes? What grim battle has been fought?' She stumbled a little on an unseen rock, but with the nimbleness of a true elf caught her balance instantly.

'We fought a host of the Southronds,' he said with a shiver that she could feel through his grip on her arm. 'And we lost two men, which makes it far worse. They were good fighters, and were not lost for lack of skill but for their courage, which in the end took them too close to the enemy lines.' He huffed. 'They died a great death, my lady. Their families shall be proud. The Southronds are a grim people, evil and a great threat to the Kingdom of Gondor. They follow the Dark Lord like his shadow; except that in this case the shadow is not as dark as the being itself.'

'Did you kill them all?' She was terrified at the thought that she had left the hobbits alone when _real _enemies wandered.

'We think so, my lady,' he said. 'We think so. But we cannot be sure: some men say that, in the very hour of our victory, they saw a group of only two or three escape to the South, past our lines. We cannot prove or disprove this.'

'Be on your guard then.'

'We are, my lady, but "nín hannad" anyway.'

'Your Elvish improves, knight! Surely you have had practise at the tongue?'

'Yay and nay, my lady,' he said in his soft manner. 'My father, the memory of whom I treasure, spoke a little. By the reckoning of Men he spoke it well; but to the Elves…' He laughed softly. 'He was but an unlearned child, stumbling on the words and phrases of an ancient language far beyond his comprehension. I guess I picked up a little from him. Phrases are not remembered by me, but I can remember some pronunciation…'

'Surely your father was a learned man to know so much,' she said in wonder.

'He was a member of the Royal Guard, and high in rank. He was taught by the very best tutors of Middle Earth. Well, the very best human tutors,' he laughed a little. 'He only ever met three elves face-to-face; and one of these was on his deathbed. Pray forgive me, Lady Elf, if I regale you not with that story. His recent death still pains me.'

'Of course, ranger of Ithilien.'

'And I must ask of you also this: we have fallen behind the other travellers now. We must quit talking, if it does not displease you too greatly, so as we can walk faster and catch the others.'

'Of course!' She said. 'Lead the way, trusted Tafol.'


	13. Falling Away

Thanks for the reviews! Great to have Amanda back! Sorry about all the spelling mistakes. Spelling is definitely _not _one of my best skills.

I haven't updated for a while now (mostly because of fanficiton.net's update) but from now on I should update about once a day.

Please read, enjoy, and review.

***

They travelled on for a while more, Mithmír talking to the hobbits now as they were close enough. She was engaged in a conversation with Sam about the best way to eat eggs – much to the evident amusement of their guards – when suddenly she heard a twig crack to the north of them.

'Mabatirith,' _Be careful_. She said in Elvish, which was rather pointless, but at the time it was her first reaction. Her basest instincts were all in Elvish. She thought for barely a second and then said, 'Lord Faramir! Are any of your men to the _direct north _of us, maybe five or six hundred metres?' There was an urgency in her voice.

'No,' he said in quick reply. 'Why?' Meanwhile he motioned for his men to form defensive positions, and to draw their weapons.

There was no time for her to reply. The Southronds jumped from the bushes with the grace of cats but the power of rampaging bulls. She couldn't see it, but she could hear every sound and the sounds and smells told her every detail of the scene; nearly as well as if she were seeing it. The two men were down in a volley of arrows, but their purpose was clear: with no regard for personal safety, their first move was toward Frodo. One drew a pipe to his lips and blew hard: out flew a dart, faster moving than any human eye could see. Faramir had seconds before given the order to protect the hobbits with their lives, but even though his men rushed to obey, they were too slow.

Mithmír, however, was not. She could hear the dart; her half-elf hearing enough to do her that service. She also believed that, for that one time, Manwë himself helped her. With only the merest hint of a pause, she stepped in front of where she judged Frodo to be.

The Men and hobbits saw her fall as swiftly as the Southronds. She hit the ground with a dull thud, and just over her right hip there was a bloody tear in the fabric of her clothes - at the height of a hobbit neck. Her skin paled quickly, and they could _hear_ her breathing become harder, as well as see her chest move rapidly up and down. For a second, no one did anything. Then Frodo called,

'What has happened? Who has fallen?' And Sam echoed his call, but added, 'it's not _her_, is it? The lady hasn't fallen?'

Faramir's voice was harsh, tense. 'You, you and you: you are all fast runners, are you not? Then we are not too far from the camp. Run thence and bring back a stretcher! Hurry, this brave woman's life depends on the speed of your feet!' Meanwhile he dropped to the ground beside the fallen maiden, and quickly rearranged her so she lay comfortably. Her breathing was painfully, audibly shallow; her chest heaved with every effort to draw breath. 'Remove the blindfold, for the sake of the Gods!' He called in exasperation. It was done so instantly. Her eyes were hard closed, their dark, emotional depths hidden. Her skin was paling fast, and her lips lost their colour.

'Poison,' gasped Faramir. 'The Southronds have been educated in the art of poison-making! This is far more serious than their normal sleep-inducing berries or the like. We have not long, then, to save her. Which of you knows the most of healing?' He asked his men.

One lean, young man raised his hand. His hair was ginger, and little curls protruded from under his helm. 'I, Lord Faramir. I am the most advanced healer here.'

'Then in the name of Gondor,' said Faramir hoarsely, 'run to the camp and prepare whatever you need to heal this maid. Go, go!'

With a nod the young man, barely older than a boy, sprinted off after the men who had gone to fetch a stretcher.

'_Poison_?' Gasped Sam. 'Did you hear that, Mr Frodo? Did you hear?'

'Of course, Sam!' Replied Frodo urgently. 'Lord Faramir, we beg of you, tell us what has occurred or else remove these blindfolds!'

Faramir replied in a shout, getting angry. '_Nothing_, do you hear me? There is no time for me to tell you, unless you want to lose her forever. _Do you understand_?'

'Yes,' said Frodo with remarkable calm. 'Yes, Lord, we do. Save her, if you can, and we shall forever praise your name.' His voice was deceptively quiet as he tried to hide his emotion.

Faramir nodded, and laid his hand on the woman's brow: she was icy cold already. He pulled off his travelling-cape, revealing shining silver armour, and wrapped it firmly around her. He grasped her hands, and looked at them for a second before putting them in the pockets of her cape: they were perfectly shaped, but showed the signs of long years in the wild. This lady intrigued him. He wanted to know all he could of her; for surely the tale of so wonderfully brave a maiden must be a story worth hearing.

Finally the stretcher-bearers came back. All the men but Frodo and Sam's guard helped lift the lady carefully on, their hands gentle and reverent; for a great respect for her had been born in them after witnessing her brave deed. Then two of the strongest rangers lifted the stretcher high above the ground, and moved in a quick jog away, trying to keep their passenger as still and as undisturbed as possible, despite the ruts and slopes of the road. Faramir ran beside them; and the hobbits gasped in shock as they were none-too-gently slung over shoulders which were, in their estimation, high above the ground.

'Sorry, little hobbit lords,' apologised Sam's bearer, 'but unless you wish to be left behind with possibly more Southronds about, you must allow yourself to be carried so.' Frodo agreed, and even Sam said it would 'have to do' – but he squirmed around a lot on the way.

__

Haze, mist, wetness on her face. Water? She struggled to remember just what water was, and how it felt: but she lost the image, and she was too tired to chase after it. Her limbs were heavy. She was dimly aware of being carried, back in some other place, but a voice was whispering so tantalisingly in her ear: 'it is much easier to stay here, isn't it, lady? You are happy here, in the land of your dreams. See, we can bring all your friends and family here to meet you… Why struggle back to the place where they are all sundered by wide miles, and you can never be perfectly happy?' And the faces of her loved ones flashed past her eyes. She nearly accepted it, but no, the faces were wrong, the visages merely masks. She lashed out feebly. 'No! It's not true! Let go of me! Let me back_ there!' The voice became angry, and pain tore at every inch of her body. 'You _will _stay! You are ours now! You either stay, believe our illusions, and be happy; or be forced to stay and never accept, and live in pain.' 'No, no _no_!' She screamed. 'I will never, I will never…' But her eyes were drooping, her limbs growing heavy, and she was rising, or falling, but she couldn't tell which… 'If this is death,' she thought, 'it is not as bad as I thought it would be…'_


	14. Healing

No introduction this time. Too tired.

***

The healer pressed the wet cloth on the woman's now-fevered brow again, so drops of clear water moved slowly down into her hair, or along her nose. 'Come back to the living, Lady Elf! You are not dead yet! Come back!'

Frodo looked with troubled eyes at the maiden lying on the table. For all the healer's words, she did look as if she was laid in eternal slumber, her body remaining but her spirit passed beyond the boundaries of Middle Earth. Then he caught a slight twitch in her hand, which rested by her thigh. Somewhat guiltily he raised his eyes: after she had reached the fever stage, the healer had stripped the maiden down to her shift. It had all been done very politely, and in the name of urgency, but the rather conservative hobbit still felt embarrassed.

'Healer,' he said, 'her hand… it stirs… Can she be awakening?'

The man took note of this, and then smiled broadly at the hobbit. 'She's a strong woman, Frodo. Stronger than most of the men we have here, to withstand such strong poison. I should not be surprised if even now she still lives.'

'I hope so,' said Sam, and Frodo noticed with a smile that his tubby fingers were crossed.

All eyes were on the lady as her lips parted slowly, and a dry tongue flicked out to wet them. The lips formed soundless words, and with the utmost care the healer took a small beaker of water and fed its contents, drip by slow drip, to the for once helpless half-elf who lay there. Sam went red as he forgot to breath, until Frodo pinched him kindly. 'She'll be all right,' he whispered.

'I know,' Sam replied with a little smile. 'She's like that.' Though he had known this odd maid for only a few days, he still felt like she was one of his greatest friends - and guardians.

They were halted in their conversation by a familiar voice, but it was quieter now, and weaker than they had ever imagined it could be. It was wrong for one so strong to be so vulnerable.

'Where… Oh, I'm not dead… I'm _alive_…' Her head flopped down from where it had raised a little as she spoke. 'The hobbits… how are… they weren't…'

'Calm there, lady,' said the healer in gentle, compassionate tones. Were he a more average man, he may have been attracted to her there and then, but he had devoted his life to healing and protecting his country; and he would never let his emotions get mixed up with his work. 'The little men are fine, thanks to your brave act. You were poisoned by a Southrond dart. Had it hit one of the hobbits, they should have most definitely died. We thought you were lost too, brave lady.' He wiped her brow with the cloth again. 'You are strong in deed, and have won the respect of all who dwell in Ithilien, and when the word spreads, all of Gondor too.'

She seemed to be recovering quickly, now, and her deep, dark eyes flicked open, fluttered for a while, and then managed to stay so. 'I am glad for that,' she said with a smile. 'How long must I rest? Lying in wait does not suit my temperament.' She laughed weakly.

'There is good news for you in that field,' said the healer while he gave her more water, and motioned for her to drink well. 'Since you have healed so quickly, I presume that the worst is over. The poison is nearly all worn out – even the cut on your neck looks well, and it does not fester. We assume the poison used was of the variety we call "Deathwind". It can be lethal almost immediately, but if the first hour or two is survived, the victim can heal at an incredible rate. The body seems to deal with the poison exceedingly quickly after the initial shock. However, the healing of Men is nothing to the Elven skills, or so it is said, so be not angered by my apparent lack of knowledge.' He bowed a little.

'On the contrary,' she said, while smiling long at the hobbits, 'you are very well learned.'

'You should be able to engage in activity by tonight, if my diagnosis of this poison is true,' he said. 'It is still early morn yet. If you rest all day – and if Elven wounds are as regenerative as they are fabled to be – you may dance at tonight's feast, which is partly in your honour.'

'That sounds well,' she said, but there was an unusual waver in her voice. How long had it been since she had last danced? Could she still remember the steps? For how many weeks had she been merely a warrior and not a woman?

The healer seemed to sense her fright. 'Do not worry,' he said vaguely. 'You shall do very well.'

She barely heard the last two words. She sat bolt upright, the blood draining from her face. Frodo cringed. It seemed she had noticed her garb – or rather, lack of it. She stared in horror and accusation at the men about her.

Sam, blushing furiously, handed her a cloak quickly. 'We're sorry, lady,' he said quickly. 'We didn't mean anything by it, I swear on my honour, no we didn't! It was to save you… I _tried _to tell them…'

She wrapped the linen around her gratefully, and then smiled at him with incredible composure. 'Thank you for your care, faithful Sam, but I trust all three men in this room. You have saved my life, and for that I am ever grateful.' She nodded politely at all three, and then stretched out a travel-worn hand to the man. 'Healer,' she said politely, 'would you be so kind as to help me down? I should be greatly pleased if a bath could be drawn up for me…'

'In deed,' he said, and took her in his arms before putting her gently down. 'We have no female courtiers here, however, so you must bathe with no one to wait on you. Is that well?'

'Well enough,' she said with a wry grin to the hobbits. 'You two go and see Faramir,' she said before she walked slowly out after the healer. 'Tell him the Lady Mithmír is healed and well, and shall attend dinner this eve.' She curtsied a little, and then went carefully out, leaning against the wall a little.

'Well I'll be blowed,' said Sam as they left, 'the lady Mithmír is not quite like anyone I have ever met before.'

'She is full of surprises, just like her "uncle" Aragorn!' Laughed Frodo gleefully. 'But she's courageous and faithful, and knows her own limits too.' His eyes clouded over for a second. 'She shall not come with us out of Ithilien, Sam.'

Sam was gobsmacked. He enjoyed the lady's company; not least of all her Elven songs. 'But _why, _Mister Frodo?'

Frodo smiled at him sadly. 'The Ring is calling her,' he said. 'She is partly a kin of Men, Sam; even if Faramir doesn't completely understand it, and she acts like an elf in most ways. She shall leave us here, and go to the war at Gondor with Faramir and his men. It is not a lack of courage which makes her do so,' he added thoughtfully. 'She is very strong, or will be, if she can go through with leaving the Ring here.'

'Oh, she's strong alright,' Sam agreed. 'But now, Mister Frodo, I see this troubles you even as it does me, even though you wont say so directly, like. Send it from your mind for now, for your Sam's sake, and be merry.'


	15. Decisions

Decisions are coming up for Mithmír in this chapter, a big decision in particular…

Please R&R

By the way, thanks to all my reviewers especially my most recent, Satiana - I'm so flattered by the stuff you said! Thanks! 

***

'The Lady shall come?' Asked Faramir, his smile widening. 'Oh that's good news in deed! I worried greatly for her.'

'As did we, Lord Faramir,' Frodo said politely. He couldn't help noticing the man's abundant joy, and he wondered at it. All through their long journey together, he had never seen Mithmír as more than a protector, and an (at times) unseen guardian. To think of her as a _woman_, subject to the same passions and attentions as any other, confused him.

'I have my men working on providing you with clothes for the feast, hobbit lords,' he said graciously, getting up and patting them each on the shoulder enthusiastically. 'We have little small enough; but our spares are being re-worked and shortened.'

'And for that we thank you kindly, Lord!' Sam said gleefully. 'Imagine! Clean clothes at last!'

'Why yes, Sam!' Agreed Frodo with a chuckle at his friend's impromptu happiness. 'That'll be a joy beyond the words of even Elves to tell. But if you'll excuse us, Lord,' he said with a quick bow, 'you said baths were being prepared for us…?'

'Why, of course, if I hadn't forgotten!' Said Faramir in reply. 'Servers? Take these two lords to their rooms, and wait on them in accordance to their importance, which is great.'

'Well, mister Frodo!' Sam said in wonderment, 'what would Merry and Pippin say to hear us being talked of so?'

'I wonder in deed,' said Frodo quietly, and fell into silent thought on the friends they had so long been sundered from.

The feast was full under way, and yet still the Daughter of Elves and Men had not arrived. Faramir had been told to start without her; though not the reason for her lateness. With a heavy heart he watched the joyful revelling about him, and at every movement near the hall's door it leapt, only to plummet again when the figure was shown as one of his own men. Where could she _be_?

Frodo and Sam were thinking the same thing as they tucked into the succulent rabbit-meat before them. 'I wonder what's delaying the lady, mister Frodo, sir,' Sam said after swallowing a particularly large chunk. 'Maybe she's been claimed ill again?'

'No, Sam,' said Frodo, who could guess the true cause. 'Then they would have sent out her food on platters with some serving-man; and none has gone. I think I should be right in saying that the lady, however unlikely it seems, is nervous.'

'_She? Nervous_?' Sam gasped. 'Of what, mister Frodo? I should never have imagined such a high and brave lady as her to be scared of anything at all.'

'She fears nothing at battle,' Frodo agreed, 'but now… She is a warrior, Sam, and has been for a very long while. She shall now be, for an entire night, viewed as the one woman – and indeed, the one _she-elf_ – among a party of men. That is what makes her nervous.'

'Aye,' Sam said in wonderment, though he didn't really understand at all.

She stood in the corridor, her hands on her belly as if to quell the nerves that made it writhe. She stroked the unfamiliar fabric, the red velvet. The healer had found the dress in a long-unused chest, which previously – many years ago – belonged to some Lady of Minas Tirith who stayed in the Ithilien camp. It was a perfect red for her rather pale, elven skin; and its style was long but with a cut neck and a well-fitting bodice. She had fixed her own hair, with much cursing and difficulty, so it hung long and dark down her back, but with the two front pieces braided neatly and tied behind her head, keeping the locks well back out of her face. She had even crushed the berries the healer had provided to die her lips a full, deep red. She liked the resulting look, she thought, but she had a nagging feeling it wasn't _her_. She was a warrior, a shield-maiden, and an elf… She began to doubt that she could ever fulfil _all _her roles, all her lives.

She felt the healer's hand on her shoulder, and his voice by her ear in a whisper: 'Be brave, my Lady.' And pushed her forward.

The light enveloped her, surrounded her, and the sound of near a hundred voices hit her like a wave. The heat of the room, the heat of so many bodies and the large fire, made her feel slightly nauseous, but all such thoughts were forgotten in a second: for the nose stopped, as did the movement, and all eyes turned to her in wonder. She looked at the hobbits, who stared with open eyes, amazed at the transformation. She smiled weakly.

It was Faramir who spoke first. 'My Lady Mithmír!' He said out loud, moving to her side, and placing a warm arm around her waist. He then whispered close to her ear, his hot breath tickling her sensitive skin, 'you look fairer than I ever imagined you could, Lady Elf. Truly you are one of the high folk as your beauty proclaims!'

She blushed a little, and murmured her thanks. She was uncomfortable with the way this man paid attention to her, as a woman. She thought instantly and inexplicably of Legolas; but her heart was beating hard with emotion in the company of Faramir too… She was so confused….

She pulled away a little, and said with a laugh – sounding more brave than she felt – 'shall you dance with the Grey Stone? Shall you be able to lead her in a dance?'

He bowed low, a smile crossing his features. Mithmír realised he hadn't taken her moving away as a half-hearted refusal at all. 'Of course, my fair Lady!' He took her by the waist then, and drawing his body up close to hers – a little closer than the dance required – and then signalled for the music to start. It did nearly instantly, the fiddles and pipes and single drum beating out the slow, stately beat of a dance popular with the nobles of Minas Tirith, very refined and elegant.

'I cannot confess to knowing this at all!' Mithmír gasped, trying to unobtrusively pull away from her partner, despite a large part of her conscience saying, _what chance do you have with the Elf? Settle for a Man of a high line and be happy._

'Then let me teach you!' Faramir laughed happily, and swung her delicately but enthusiastically into the first twirl of the dance. His rangers quickly formed a circle, clapping excitedly at this new entertainment, which was a welcome change to the normal routine of eating and listening.

Despite herself, Mithmír found herself to enjoy the dance immensely. She ended so hot and flushed with both happiness and exertion, so foot-weary the man was nearly holding her up. When she had finally caught her breath, and the cheering and clapping had died down, she delighted Faramir by saying eagerly, 'may we dance again, Lord? Something yet more lively again?'

'Of course!' He shouted, and led her in a merry folk tune. 'So am I a good enough dancer to be blessed with partnering you, Lady Elf?'

'More than enough skill is in your feet!' Laughed Mithmír above the din of the crowd. She waved at Frodo and Sam as they whirled past their spot in the crowd. 'It is my honour to be led in the dance by you, Lord!'

He looked her deep in the eyes, and she saw feelings she couldn't – or didn't want to – understand; most of all a burning passion. 'Your words please me more than you shall ever know, fairest of all maidens.'

Unnerved, she broke the eye contact. 'I am sure you shall find a fairer maiden than me for yourself, Faramir,' she said in a low voice.

'If there is,' he said, 'I want not to find her: all I desire is here in my arms.'

She blushed furiously. 'Faramir… you have my respect and admiration, and gratitude –' Faramir broke in before the _but_ came.

'That's all I want, lady, all but one. I want your love, as surely as you have mine.'

Every word he said made her more aware of how hard the let down would be for him - if it came, if she could make her mind up. 'I cannot give my heart to you…'

'Not yet,' he said with a cheeky grin she found endearing. 'But please – give me just tonight, and I will change your mind on that.'

The voice in her mind was back: _see how he cares for you? He is worthy of you, and he is within your grasp. You enjoy his touch! Do not deny yourself the pleasure he can give. _Her resolve finally weakened, she smiled. 'Very well,' she said with a smile twitching the corner of her lips. 'You have one night, Lord, and one night only to take my heart.'

He called out in joy. 'And it is all I ask, fair maid!'


	16. Losses And Gains

I'm really sorry about all the spelling mistakes. I'll try to correct as many as I can, but it helps if you say where they are in your reviews. It's fine if you just say 'all of chapters 1-10'!

Thanks so much for all the reviews!

***

All in the space of the three hours between seven and ten she danced with no less than thirteen of Faramir's men, though he seemed to be very protective of her. The hobbits got several dances each, and all the bending down made her back ache, but she decided it was worth it.

At the meal she sat to the left of Faramir, and was served the best meat and wine that Ithilien and its rangers could offer her. A talented fiddle player stood before her and, at Faramir's direction, played many long ballads of beautiful maidens for her. She beamed with delight at one particular that took her fancy, and Faramir smiled at her joy.

By the eleventh hour it was nearly fully dark, and the fire had sunk low in its embers. The hobbits were half-slumped across the tables, breathing deeply in their sleepiness. Faramir drained his golden cup finally, and banged it on the table. A man lying full-length on the wood beside rolled over in his intoxicated sleep.

'Time we went from the party now,' Faramir said softly, and gently he helped the two hobbits up. 'Good night, little men who are great lords. You know the way to your rooms.'

He followed them out of the hall, but turned away on a different corridor later, the one that took him to Mithmír's room. His breath laboured in expectation, he stopped before the long curtain that covered the door. 'Lady Mithmír, it is Faramir. May I enter?'

'Yes,' called out the pure, sincere voice from inside. Its owner was far more nervous than she let on.

Taking a deep breath and thinking, _you're the Steward's son, you can do this, it's just a woman… _But not just, oh definitely not just, he thought as he brushed aside the curtain and walked in.

Her room was far warmer than the rest of the extensive cave system. The fire was piled high, and candle in every bracket on the wall, as well as three on the table in wrought-iron holders. The Lady sat on a stool by the table, wearing her white night-dress with a fur rug pulled around her shoulders. Her feet were bare. She looked up at him, and he was struck with her fierce beauty, the way her wild spirit shone through her features. He bowed low. 'Lady,' he said reverently.

She pointed to the stool beside her. 'Come in, Lord. Please, sit here – and there is heated wine in that flask. Help yourself – your serving-man kindly left two mugs.'

He sat down beside her, unable to take his eyes from her deceptively lithe form. 'You look…'

She looked at him sadly. In the hour since she had departed from the party; she had thought over her feelings for this Man. And they were not love, at least, not love as the love he expressed for her. He was charismatic, and she viewed him as a trusted friend, but nothing else. She was not sure how to tell him, and her heart ached. When she looked back on it later, she would realise she had behaved in a very elf-like manner. 'Lord, say no more,' she said quietly, but the words were clearly an order.

He looked at her, and the hurt in his eyes was deep. 'My Lady… But you said…'

She took his hands and cupped them in hers, and looking deep into his eyes spoke in the most caring voice she could muster: 'Lord, there is another woman for you. I can feel this in my heart. We were not meant to be for each other. You must put me from your mind, and do not grieve for loss. Just because we cannot love one another, that does not mean we cannot still be close.' The hurt in his deep orbs lessened a little, barely perceptibly - even for an Elf. 'I wish to be your ally, Lord, and if I may a dear friend. My affection for you is great, but it does not manifest itself in love of a kind of husband and wife.'

He nodded, though the tears still threatened. 'I must consider myself blessed that you will pay even this kindness to me, Lady.'

'Do not be so bitter, Lord. You have not lost a love but gained a friend who, if she may, shall be faithful till the end.'

'But you go with the hobbits by morning… I can never know you better than this, Lady, and that makes my heart grieve.'

She sighed. 'Lord, I ask you a favour now: may I ride out with your company to fight for Minas Tirith, the city of my forebears? I can fight nigh better than many Men…'

'You mean it?' He asked, eyes shining now with hope un-looked for. 'You shall ride with us, on my right-hand side?'

'If I may, it should be an honour,' she said simply. 'I can no longer serve the hobbits as well as I wish. The last stage of this Quest rests on their own shoulders. I now instead wish to fight at the head of the armies of the Free Nations, to fight for our right to live.' She bowed her head a little. 'I should stay by your side until a greater need arose. I do not give you my sword, Lord, for my soul remains untamed. I do, however, give you my word: to serve you as I can, and as I will, as a dear friend and most trusted companion, both on the field of war and off.'

'And your pledge I gratefully accept,' he said in joy, and hugged her close – as a friend, no more and no less. 'We shall indeed be as close as brother and sister!' His eyes clouded over with tears at mention of brothers, as the thought of Boromir who was lost to him. When he was calmer, he continued, 'and the foul things of darkness shall fall and flee before our shining blades!'

And they raised their glasses and toasted together, before talking long into the morning as only the best of friends can.

***

Phew, we can go back to Legolas at last! Yay! And Eowyn can still get Faramir!

Again, please tell me about any spelling errors.


	17. Sad Partings

Thanks for all the reviews! I'm trying to improve the spelling. Please R&R and mention if I'm making any headway! Thanks!

***

Her goodbye to the hobbits was not tearful, but had just as much sadness involved. She grieved to see two such brave men go off to what reason told her was sure death. She embraced each of them hard and long, and whispered Elven words of luck in their ears. 'Take care of yourselves for my sake at least,' she said hoarsely, her eyes wet with with-held tears. 'And Sam, look after yourself as well as your master!'

'Don't worry, lady, I'll look after Mister Frodo, you'll see,' Sam sniffed.

She finally stood up, and she looked brave and glorious, but her hand, as it waved, shook against the outline of the rising sun. 'We shall meet again, hobbits,' she said, and her voice was bold, loud and wise. 'Whether it be here on Middle Earth, or upon the shores of the Undying Lands, or at the very End of all before Ilúvatar, _we shall meet again_.' And then she mounted her elven horse; who was tall and proud, and whom she had summoned early that morning from his wanders far away in Minas Tirith. Her dark hair was moving in the breeze about her head, and the sun glinted off the light armour she had taken from her pack. 'Remember me,' she called, 'remember Mithmír Rochiwen, the grey-stone, the maid of horses.' And then she called out something in Elvish, which only Frodo understood, though he later told Sam:

'Dû thia morn an i gwaith ai nedh ten achas cuinar, dan nainnas minuil a amdir uin melui methen_._' _The night looks dark to those who in its thrall live, but there is always a dawn and a chance of fairer ending._

And then she was off, her horse moving fluidly as water, cantering away after Faramir and his men, who had left an hour before.

'I hate goodbyes,' was Sam's teary statement.

'Fear not, though,' Frodo replied dreamily, 'for she speaks true. In the end, we shall all meet again.'

She rode fast, and reached Faramir and his men before the sun was high up. To their evident amazement her horse was barely tired, though his flanks had a sheen of sweat upon them. The half-elf herself was panting a little from the hard ride, and her hood was up – to hide her tears, but they were not to know that.

Faramir had been turning around in the saddle to see if she was coming for the last half-hour. It was on one such turn that he saw her, a black form of horse and rider in the distance. He raised a long arm in greeting, and shouted, 'the Lady comes to join us!' His men, turning also, added their shouts eagerly to his. The elf had been taken as a kind of lucky sign, a good omen that such a powerful creature of legend and old stories should be riding with them to war. Faramir hadn't put down the rumours of Elves' strange powers: anything that kept up his men's moral was worth preserving.

She galloped up within a second, and in a graceful yet purposeful movement swept back her hood, and shook her head to let her hair flow loose. 'You ride fast… for a Man and a man,' she jested with a wry smile on her face. The tears had been swept away, and there was no sign to say that they had ever been.

Faramir spurred his horse forward to kiss her cheek in greeting. 'Aye, but we cannot all match she-elves in everything!'

She laughed happily, shaking the shadow off her heart as she did so. The hobbits' destiny was their own now. She could not save all who she loved any longer. She slowed the pace of her elven horse to match Faramir's. 'Where do we head, Lord?' She asked finally, and quietly so only he heard it.

'I am _Faramir_, not Lord, to you, my friend,' corrected the man in mock anger. 'We head for Minas Tirith, the city of my father, the twenty-sixth Steward, Lord Denethor.' He frowned in sorrow. 'I think he shall not be glad to see me.'

Her inquisitive spirit alerted, Mithmír cocked her head in interest. 'Why?' She asked unashamedly.

He looked at her, and the pain in his eyes was immense, but accepted. 'Because he ever loved Boromir more than me, and now Boromir is lost to us all.'

She bowed her head, and bit her lip for her impertinence. 'I am sorry, Faramir,' she said softly. 'It was not my place to ask such things.'

'I am glad you did before any other,' he said, and patted her hand kindly. 'I am comfortable telling you these things, Mithmír. You understand. Maybe it is the Elven blood in you, or maybe it is just _you_, Mithmír herself… I don't know.' He shrugged casually, but his bright eyes looked at her steadily for her reaction.

'Recently I have not even known who the real Mithmír _is_,' sighed the half-elf wearily. 'I have been acting as if in a dream. I do not know what I want anymore. I do not know whether I am Elf, or Man, or either. I do not know where I am meant to be, where I shall fit in. And who can tell me?' Her eyes begged him, but he shook his head.

'Not I, Lady, not I.' His smile was caring, compassionate. 'Maybe, somewhere along the line of this War of the Ring – for surely there _shall_ be war – we shall both find our true place, our true purpose.'

'Humans have no fore-planned "purpose",' said Mithmír thoughtfully. 'Ilúvatar only plans the lives of Elves. A Human's gift is to chose.'

'And to die,' muttered Faramir as if pained. He looked up at her suddenly. 'Will you die, Lady?'

She looked puzzled. She had asked herself this question a lot recently. 'Yes… or… I _think _so,' she said slowly. 'My mother renounced her immortality to live with my father; however, she still may leave on Elven boats across the sea, if she so wishes. And I am ageing at the speed of Men.' She giggled. 'Mind you, I might just _stop _growing, as suddenly as _that_,' she snapped her fingers, 'and become immortal in the wink of an eye!'

Faramir laughed with her. 'Then we face death together, Lady, and one of my men's tales is proved false. They said elves were immortal and invulnerable.'

'They are not,' she replied knowledgeably. 'Immortal, yes, but Elves can die in battle. Or,' she paused for a while, 'of a broken heart.' She looked odd for a while, but soon cheered up. 'Mind you, they are often re-incarnated after that, it is said; or sometimes merely pass into the Halls of the Valar beyond the Sundering Sea. We – I mean, _they _never pass totally the confines of this world, unlike Men. It has always puzzled Elves as to where Men go when they die.'

'Well, I know the answer to that as well as you,' replied Faramir conversationally. 'But I hope there's good ale and fresh food before a warm fire, and with promise of a soft bed, wherever it is!'

She laughed. 'I should toast to that, friend!'

***

Ahh, the joys of platonic love in a story. Makes things much easier!

Hope you're enjoying it! Please review!


	18. Black Riders Before The White City

Depressed… hobbits gone… and Legolas _still _gone…

Please R&R - constructive criticism welcome

***

The trip was uneventful, over all. They found a half-dozen orcs skulking around on the roadside, but they were quickly – and bloodily – dealt with. Faramir's men were well skilled in the arts of war, Mithmír judged, and were faithful to the death to their beloved leader.

When they slept that night her bedroll was beside Faramir's, but at a modest distance, in the centre of all the other men's for protection from the horrors that may wander nearby. Faramir wouldn't hear of her taking a watch that night, and so she slept, and was glad for it, despite her words. In secret and silence, when she was asleep, some of Faramir's men watched her in wonder; for even as in the way of the Elves, she slept with her eyes open, so she might always see the stars.

And then the Darkness fell. It was the twelfth of March by Mithmír's reckoning. She awoke that morn and instantly cried out. Faramir sprang to her side, and taking her hand in his, nodded at her sadly.

'Night is here,' he whispered quietly. 'The sun shall not be revealed to us again unless we win this War.' He helped her up to a sitting position, and embraced her till her shivers stopped. When he lent back there was a cheeky twinkle in his eye. 'To think, lady, you of all people are afraid of the dark…'

She stifled her laughter and playfully lashed out, pushing him over. 'The dark doesn't make me afraid, Faramir,' she said calmly. 'It's what _causes _it that does - the dark power of Mordor.'

He got up slowly, and nodded. 'That fear can never be scoffed at, Lady,' he said evenly. 'We have to go on though, but at least it will be away from our fears.'

'And maybe into new ones,' she said cryptically, but would not explain the comment however much Faramir asked.

And ride they did, as fast as they could, and the hooves of the horses were hastened by the almost tangible fear of the growing shadow behind them.

By the next morning the darkness was so deep that Faramir awoke her with a lamp in his hand. Her elf eyes had little trouble seeing, but the men alikened it to deep dusk. This time, however, she did not cry out, but rather rolled over wearily, and silently mouthed a prayer to the Valar for strength.

'We need speed,' Faramir told her over breakfast. 'I sense trouble growing; and a fear is weighing on my heart. If we do not reach the White City soon, I fear my courage shall fail.'

'You underestimate your courage, Faramir,' Mithmír replied in a voice quieted so the conversation was kept private from the breakfasting men about them. 'But I agree that speed is needed. You must see, however, that we cannot make decent speed with all these men.' She gestured about her. 'We should continue, but only with your fastest riders.' She shrugged and deftly swallowed a mouthful of water. 'Of course, these are your men, and it is your choice.'

'I agree with you,' Faramir said after a minute's thought. 'Two of my men alone have fast enough horses to keep up with my own; and none to match your Elven stallion, but that cannot be helped. It shall be only four of us who ride on, but it must suffice.'

'It shall,' said Mithmír with conviction that surprised even herself. Later she would regret that sureness.

'The others go to Cair Andros, then,' Faramir sighed. 'It is but a mile or so upstream, they can make the time quickly. We cross here, as best we can, and waste no more time.' He got up decisively. 'I go to order my men. The two who shall accompany us, Roroth and Gerbenel, good men both and skilled riders, shall meet you by the banks of the Anduin in five minutes. Lady,' he said finally, before he left, 'today I ask you to wear your armour fully, not only in part, and to keep your sword and bow at easy reach.' His eyes showed brotherly care and concern, bordering on fear - fear for _her_, not only himself and his men.

She nodded swiftly. 'I will, Faramir. Worry not for me.'

And then they parted silently, each disappearing into the gloom.

They were already inside the circle of the Rammas Echor when the final twist of fate struck them. They had been riding hard and fast; for the riders Faramir had brought with them were indeed well-skilled in the saddle. Mithmír's whole body ached, and her armour chafed at her skin. She hadn't ridden in full armour for many years now - if ever. Her helmet especially bothered her, as she believed it restricted her vision and hearing. Faramir, however, half-begged, half-ordered for her to keep it on. She did, with reluctance. It was lucky.

She heard it first, despite the confines of the helmet on her pointed ears. She dropped her speed so Faramir could catch her up, and called, 'can you hear that, Faramir? Can you hear the wings?'

'No,' he replied, looking at her oddly. 'Wings of what?'

'I don't know,' she said with a shiver, scouring the sky. Her hands tightened on Brialvastor's mane - she used no reins. 'There are five black specks on the far horizon… Tell me, Faramir, does Gondor ever see eagles above it?'

'Not since long before I was born!' He replied, and a fear grew in his voice. 'The hobbits told me of terrors that are winged, however…' He took a hand from the reins and pointed to the dots which were now just visible to human eyes. The other men had seen it too. 'Tell me - how big are these things?'

'Smaller than dragon, larger than eagle,' Mithmír said, and her belly clenched into a knot of worry. 'Black and sinuous, with spikes on wings and jowl and paw…' She shuddered, and her eyes on Faramir were wide. 'And riders are astride them!'

'Then the hobbits' tales are true indeed, and may haunt us yet!' Faramir half-shouted. He turned his horse around with vicious suddenness, and stopped till the two men caught up. Mithmír followed suit. The fear she felt now was even greater than that outside the Black Gates, and this one was getting closer…

'Ride!' Faramir shouted as loud as he could, and the sound was muffled by the darkness. '_Ride _if you ever want to see the light again!' The two men took his words to heart, and kicked their horses hard. The beasts broke into a gallop, and with a call for her to follow Faramir joined their retreat, but Mithmír knew they were _too slow_. The black riders, the Nazgûl, were far fleeter on their winged horrors than man on mortal horse. Despite herself she felt tears of frustration and fear wet her cheeks. It was hopeless, these men would die… Choking on her sorrow, urging herself to be brave, Mithmír rode after them, calling to Brialvastor,

'Noro lim, noro lim!' The words echoed in her mind, they seemed to have great importance, but she could not know that another elven rider had called those words in his fear, before the Bruinen. 'Tulu enni, Brialvastor celegroch!' _Save me, Brialvastor the swift steed!_

She soon caught up with the men, who were frenzied with fear, and whose horses were already starting to become disobedient with blind terror. Faramir alone remained in control of his mare, but his attempts to help his friends were futile. Mithmír called to Faramir's horse in Elvish, and it sprang away after her and Brialvastor, leaving Faramir unable to help his men. He turned on her, and his anger was white hot. 'Why do you not let me save them, Mithmír? Would you have innocent men die?'

'I would not have a man who is a _brother_ to me die!' Cried Mithmír, her voice strong despite her anguish and tears. 'Do not die for them, Faramir! Their doom is decied while as of yet you still have a chance! Do not leave me alone to grieve!'

'My place is with my men, Elf!' He shouted back, turning his horses head. The beast obeyed finally. 'I must die with them if need demands it! Fly from here while you can, and wait not for the weary!' And he galloped back to try to quiet the panicking beasts and riders.

Mithmír pulled Brialvastor to an instant stop, and looked back out to the plain, where the deadly riders on their foul creatures of nightmares swooped down repeatedly on the men. Her heart was being torn in two. She had always called herself _brave_, even thought she was, but now she felt true fear, and it nearly made her sick. She saw the courage of Faramir, a mere Man, and it made her feel guilty. She would not leave her friend here to die; no more than she would leave Tirathnavir, Haldir or Anoniel to a similar fate. Futile as it was, she would do her part in helping him.

Her legs were as heavy iron when she kicked Brialvastor on, urging him to turn back. His speed was that of the wind, but she already felt half-dead in the saddle. The fear of the beasts gripped her mind in a terrible embrace, trying to make her give up… She gritted her teeth, tasting the salt of tears as they reached her mouth.

When she passed Faramir, who was having little success with his men, their eyes met. His went wide and she heard him, above the wind roaring past, shout wildly, 'turn back, Elf!' but she merely shook her head firmly, and rode on. He looked after her in anguish, but in a second turned back to his duty, though it weighed heavily on his heart and mind.

She rode far past them, and fast. One of the Black Riders saw her go, as she had hoped, and its beast gave an evil shriek as it swooped to follow her. She felt her heart pounding so violently she almost imagined the beast and its rider could hear it beating in her chest… She begged Brialvastor to run, faster than he ever had, but she knew he could find no more energy within himself, or not enough to outpace this terrible foe… It was gaining behind her, the wing beats getting closer, and the rider was crying in the foul language of Mordor. She wanted to give in, to let death come, take the easy way out… But the warrior part of her rebelled at that, and kept her going.

She never saw the two men fall, nor Faramir be saved by Gandalf the White, whom she thought to have fallen. She was too sick and wild with fear to notice that her pursuer, with an unnatural cry of frustration, left the chase. She was acting on one of any living thing's most natural instincts: _flight_.

When she finally got to the first ruined stone house of Osgiliath, she fell from the saddle in a dead faint.


	19. Capture

Thanks so much for all the reviews! It's great to know people are still reading this. In reply to Satiana's comment, I think most sane people would have a cow if a girl chose Faramir over Legolas!

Please R&R, and enjoy!

***

'She died brave,' Faramir whispered to himself when he was finally on his own that night in his room. His voice was choking and his face wet with tears of sorrow. '_She didn't die in vain_.' He tried to persuade himself it was true… He sobbed loudly again, and beat one hand on the wall futilely. He twisted round so his back was against the hard surface, and dropped to the floor limply. 'I _killed _her,' he whispered in the agony of his soul. 'If only I had gone with her then…' His eyes didn't see the room about him, his own room he had had as a child, but his vision was haunted with terrible scenes… A brown horse lying, crippled in death, on the empty grasslands of the Pelennor; its rider slumped on the ground beside it, helmet rolled away, arms raised above its head in a futile gesture of defence, gaping wounds in chest and neck, bright silver of armour tarnished with blood… He shuddered, and a worse vision passed before his eyes: Mithmír captured alive, still alive now, but in Minas Morgul, in _their _fell tower, being tortured… He screamed hoarsely, tried to rub his eyes clear of the terrifying visions of guilt, but they were still there: he could still see her pain, hear bones crack and blood drip to the floor, her screams of anguish… He moaned softly. 'What have I done to you, brave Elf? What terrors must you endure because of _me_?' He wrapped his arms about himself, and in his sorrow he was a young boy again, being embraced by the mother he missed so much…

She moaned deeply, and her tongue flicked out to moisten her dry lips. Her eyes were too heavy to open, and she was so tired.

'Elf!' A harsh voice cried. She relaxed at it, however. It was _human_, and spoke in the Common Tongue - not the foul one of Mordor. She sighed a little, and murmured,

'Thank the Valar…' But in a second she cried out fiercely, and despite her weariness her eyes flew open. A spear point dug harshly into her solar plexus. She let out a groan, and tried to raise her hands to protect herself, but they were being held back. Her vision cleared so she could mostly see, but dizzying black spots played chase over her eyes. 'What…?' She asked finally, and grunted again as the point was jabbed a little harder. She was shocked to see her armour had been stripped from her, and she wore only a cloak above her normal clothes - only her helmet remained on. After a few dizzying acrobatics, the black spots finally cleared, and she made out half a dozen men in the livery of Gondor around her. All their swords were drawn. She gulped, and wished she had not regained consciousness.

'Who are you?' Demanded the man with the spear, glowering. Rough hands grabbed her and forced her into a sitting position. She was suddenly and violently sick on the grass beside her. Despite their owners' sounds of revulsion, the hands that pinned her arms to her side, and held her up, didn't loosen their grip. Their revulsion could not be greater than the hate she held for herself at that time. How could she be so _weak _before these men? Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, and as the worst degradation, she was too weak in will and body to hold them back. She sobbed as if her pains could be healed by salt water. Her helmet was roughly jerked off, and then it appeared that the men around her first noticed her sex. There were a few gasps, a few shouts of wonder, but mostly suspicious grumbles - especially at her elven ears, which were all to visible through her hair. She sobbed harder, and her body shook uncontrollably. She wanted to die, to sink sweetly and softly into oblivion, to leave this place of shame and hurt.

'Who are you? Speak, or you'll die on a Gondorian blade,' warned the man with the spear, prodding her stomach again with his spear.

If she wasn't so scared, so filled with sorrow for the fallen Faramir, she would have replied boldly, assertively. But now… 'Mithmír,' she moaned between sobs. 'Half-elf…' She couldn't bring herself to mention Faramir. The pain was too recent, the wounds too fresh.

The cries were of disgust. 'Elves? Kin of the sorceress in the Wood! Evil things, all of them!' 'Probably in league with Sauron…' 'She should be killed now, Captain!'

'Do you work for the Dark Lord?' Asked the man with the spear gruffly, and twisted his weapon a little so it drew blood.

'No!' She screamed in pain. 'No, never…'

'Liar!' Shouted the men. 'Kill her, Captain! She was probably the one who summon the foul things down on Faramir over the plain!'

The man's dark eyes glinted at her coldly from the dark recess of his helmet. 'They may be right, _lady_.' He sneered the word. 'What true lady wanders on her own through troubled lands? Why, if you were _decent_ -' there was crude laughter in the ranks of men - 'you would be at home with your kin… Isn't that right?'

She blushed. She could feel the bile of hatred, anger and fear rising in her stomach; but overall she was _helpless_, and the thought horrified her. 'I'm a warrior,' she said creakily.

'Then you admit to being one of Sauron's servants?' The man pounced on her words, seeking to twist their meaning.

'No!' She cried desperately.

'But the evidence goes against you, _lady elf_.'

She hung her head wearily. She had no more strength to fight. Her ordeal had weakened even her bold spirit too much.

'We won't kill you, yet,' he surprised her by saying. 'I am not of high enough rank to order execution. Luckily, Faramir is alive, even after your attempt to kill him. He arrives here soon. He'll decide what to do to you - but don't count on his mercy overly much. The men he lost on the plain were two of his great friends.'

Mithmír didn't reply. The men were _dead_? But Faramir lived beyond her wildest hopes… A bit of darkness lifted from her soul. She would live, and fight for it. Maybe not with a sword or bow, but she would _not _let herself be killed… Anyhow, Faramir would not send the order to kill her. She trusted him deeply. She felt herself being roughly tied into the saddle of a horse - Brialvastor, she realised with no small joy - and the horse being led away. Her hands were bound, she was gagged, and the black spots had come again over her eyes with the exertion. Finally the darkness claimed her, and she saw no more.


	20. The Calm Before The Storm

It has just occurred to me that I am publishing chapters faster than I write them. I have only written about two chapters further than this. Shock horror! I have to speed up!

Thanks again for the reviews - if you haven't reviewed, please do so now!

***

The cell they locked her in was a bare ten-foot by ten-foot, with a pile of straw in the corner for a bed. Water was in a pail by the door - it had scum floating on it, but she was too thirsty to care, and her pride too battered to notice this new blow - and on a plate beside it was a piece of bread. It had none of the nutritional qualities of lembas, but then it was Man made; and it took the edge off her hunger. After she had finished all of her meagre provisions, she went on a search for her armour, weapons and traveller's pack. They were all gone, to her intense disappointment. It seemed like a moral blow. She wasn't only shivering from the cold. Her hands were still bound, but at least her gag was gone.

Her legs felt stronger, and her stomach was settled, so she walked over to the door of her cell and peered out through the grill. The city, though it was ruined, was an awesome spectacle - what little she could see of it. The building which was her cell was one of the few which was not entirely decrepit and ruined. Lizards scuttled over the stones. She could hear voices, but they weren't too close. The guard who stood to the left of the door ignored her questions; even when they elevated to shouts and curses he didn't flinch. She also couldn't see Brialvastor, to her intense dismay. She feared for her equine companion: feared he would be punished for throwing some Man from his back. They would call him wild, when all he was exercising was loyalty to the death.

She was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, head in hands, when she heard feet run quickly up to her cell, tripping on the loose stones. A muttered message was passed onto the guard: doubtless she was not meant to hear, but obviously these Men had not bargained on the ears of Elves, be they only half-elven or no.

'The Lord Faramir is here, with enough men to bolster our defences. He wants to see the prisoner in half and hour.'

'Do you think he'll call for execution?' The guard's voice was slow and ponderous, but not without kindness.

'Oh yes,' said the messenger with cruel pleasure. 'And the thing deserves it, trying to kill the Lord Faramir so!'

'Does Faramir know it's a she?' Mithmír was quickly starting to realise the guard wasn't all that bad. She smiled, hope and courage blossoming in her. A bit of the old, carefree half-elf maiden returned to her.

'Nay,' sneered the messenger. 'What need is there to tell him of _that_? It's still a traitor.'

'Well, I don't think I agree with you there…' Replied the guard.

'Must go,' the messenger terminated the conversation in disgust. The sound of his feet on the stones fast receded. Mithmír finally breathed out. She would be saved at last! She smiled widely. Life would go on.

She was soon taken out of her cell, and the situation was - unnecessarily - explained to her. The guard wasn't too rough in his handling of her, but he was obviously torn between loyalty to his Lord - who Mithmír may have attacked - and an in-built reaction that this was a lady, and should be treated accordingly. He didn't untie her bonds, however, and the rope was starting to dig into her skin. She could bear it, however. The warrior spirit was returning.

She was led by a direct route to the ruins of a great hall. Only half of it was standing, and that fraction only just. Mithmír disliked the idea of entering it - it was clearly unsafe - but nothing would stop her when she saw the familiar figure engaged in conversation with one of his soldiers at the other end. With a cry of joy, she broke free of the grasp of her guard, and ran on feet aching with cramp towards him. Tears flowed unashamed down her face to see him alive, and unharmed. She called again, 'Faramir!' And finally he turned. His face didn't register her for a second, but then there was joy, joy and tears… He ran to her, caught her in protecting arms and embraced her for what seemed like and eternity. Their tears of happiness at unexpected reunion mingled, and Faramir covered her cheeks and forehead with kisses. He finally let her move back a step, but still held her waist.

'What _happened _to you, Mithmír, my sister?' He asked in wonder, his eyes wide at the marks of ill-treatment on her bare arms, and the rope at her wrist. 'Are _you _the evil thing who tried to betray me, the one who I am to sentence now?'

'Yes,' she laughed. 'Yes, I am, and I cannot say much for the hospitality shown in Osgiliath of late!'

He frowned at her, and cut her bonds with his dagger, before massaging her wrists so the circulation returned quicker. 'It's grievous to see you like this, Mithmír - my men did this to a friend as close to me as beloved sister!' Anger ran through his voice. 'Can you identify those who did this to you?' His eyes ran down her body, and he noticed the bloody tear in the fabric of her tunic where the spear had pierced her skin. He knelt to look at it better, and his face was grave while his gentle fingers inspected the wound. 'Who did this? Tell me, Mithmír!'

She dearly wanted too. She dearly wanted to make the men who had done this too her feel as much pain and humiliation as she had. But she quelled the urge. 'No, Faramir,' she said sternly but softly. 'They did as they thought best, and they cannot be blamed.'

'But friend…' He said earnestly, getting up.

She shook her head firmly. '_No_, Faramir. They know they've done wrong. That's enough. It wasn't their fault.' She felt better as soon as she'd said it. Some of the men around the room, who had been in the party which captured Mithmír, visibly relaxed. Some even bowed almost imperceptibly her way, as if to thank her. Her feeling of having done the right thing strengthened.

He shrugged, and then suddenly threw his arms around her again, spinning her widely. The third swing had reached its zenith when she cried out. He let her down immediately with concerned gentleness, and looked into her eyes. 'Mithmír, what's wrong?'

She smiled bravely, but the colour had temporarily gone from her face. 'Nothing…'

He shook his head. 'Don't play the brave adventurer with _me_, young lady. I forgot about that wound of yours. Follow me and I'll patch it up for you.' He smiled cheekily. 'If you'll let me, of course.' He bowed deeply.

Laughing, she took his outstretched arm. 'Of course,' she said out loud, and then whispered, 'it's good to find you alive, friend.'

He smiled a little, and without looking at her replied, 'how could I die and leave you alone to grieve?'


	21. The Horns Of War

Aaargh! Excuse the very short chapter. I'm now typing this seconds before I put it up. Shock horror! Hope you're still enjoying it. I'll try to write more each day and put two chapters up each night; but sometimes it'll be more and sometimes less.

Please R&R

Thanks Satiana and Imaginator for the reviews! In reply to Satiana's comment, I'm getting Legolas back as fast as I can. I'm frantically re-reading L.O.T.R again and again to find a place where they can both be at the same time and meet again. I think I have one, and its not too far away, so bear with me! You'll get a lot of Legolas before the end, don't worry.

***

Faramir dressed her wound with the utmost tenderness. It was late afternoon when the job was done; and immediately afterwards they ate. The fare was considerably better than the stale bread Mithmír had eaten earlier that day; and the wine was not even remotely comparable to the disgusting water. While the food settled they found her sword and armour, as well as the daggers and bow. All had been put away carefully, to Mithmír's surprise - but probably only because of their value, she knew, not because of any respect for her. Faramir also gave her many arrows. They weren't of the same level of craft as those that were used by elves; but as Mithmír reminded herself, she was in no position to be picky. She thanked Faramir profusely, and settled down to clean and sharpen her weapons.

It was near nightfall - but of course, there was little difference now between day and night - when the horns of war blew frantically from the centre of Osgiliath, beside the ford. Mithmír had lain resting, but she got up instantly. Seconds later, Faramir ran into her tent. He helped her put her armour on, and she tied the straps of his with nimble fingers made clumsy only a little by expectation. Mithmír armed herself with _Celebdîn _in its sheath, her daggers at her girdle, and the quiver and bow strapped to her back. Brialvastor had been saddled by some man of Faramir's, and was waiting outside the tent. Despite her armour Mithmír mounted nimbly. Faramir took a little longer, but in seconds they were ready. He looked at her steadily, but fire burned in his eyes.

'We can't stay mounted for the fight over these rocks,' he said in warning. 'The horses can't keep their footing during battle like they can when going with care.'

She smiled a little, despite the situation. 'I _could _stay on Brialvastor for the fight,' she reminded gently. 'He is not of normal stock, and the situation should not ask too much of him. But…' she paused, and hearkened to the sounds of the rising battle for a second. 'I should not want to risk him. I ride only to the edge of the fray, and then, Faramir, we go together on foot.'

He nodded. 'Then let us fly with all speed to the battle, lady elf! Good luck to you!'

'Cuio mae!' She cried, and motioned Brialvastor forward. It might have meant _good luck_, or then gain it may have meant _live well _- in case Mithmír did not return from the fight.

They reached the ford and dismounted quickly, sending the horses away, and then jogged over to the men of Gondor, who were standing firm till Faramir's orders came. They greeted the pair with cheers and much joy; but there was apprehension and maybe even fear in their eyes.

'How many in the host on the other side?' Asked Faramir in a half-shout, trying - and succeeding - to make his voice heard above the clatter of the archers about him preparing for their first shots.

'I can see few less than a thousand,' replied Mithmír with equal volume. 'There will be more, hidden further in the ruins.'

'Any Black Riders?' Asked Faramir. The fear in his voice was under control. Mithmír envied him for it.

'There shall be, I am sure of it,' she replied in as even a voice as she could. 'They shall fall upon our ranks when we least expect it.'

He nodded grimly. 'There's no time to waste, then. We cannot let these foes cross the river.'

Mithmír turned and looked at the assembled ranks of Faramir's men, waiting with baited breath for his word. She turned with sad eyes to her friend. 'Ennas alfar adanath sí an dar glamhoth athrad celon.' _There are not enough men to stop the horde crossing the river._

Faramir's gaze was steady. 'Im thelan car,' he replied softly. _I intend to do it. _'Carle estel nin?' _Do you trust me?_

'Im estel le,' she whispered back. 'Im innas gwannan le, ae nabaur.' _I trust you. I shall die for you, if need be._

He embraced her strongly, in case it should be the last time. 'Naband, nín meleth, nín gwathel.' _Be safe, my love, my sister._

'Im cuinar innas,' she replied softly, kissing his cheek with love unabashed. 'Im alinnas gwanna a awarthale.' _I shall live. I will not die and leave you alone._

'Gelir faras!' He said finally, before turning and shouting to his men, preparing them for battle.

Mithmír smiled inwardly. Happy hunting indeed!


	22. Battle For The Fords Of Osgiliath

Yay, a long chapter at last! Well, longish, anyway. Happy reading and please review.

Annaicuru

***

Mithmír shot four arrows in quick succession, three of which found their mark and killed instantly. She dropped back down behind a parapet of stone to catch her breath. The fighting was fast and thick now. Faramir and his men were somewhere to the Northeast of her, she judged, fighting with swords to protect the ford. She was all alone, with no one in hailing distance - no one that would ever answer summons again, anyhow. She looked with great pity down to the face of the fallen archer beside her. He was young, younger than herself. He should not have died here. He had much longer to live, many pleasant things in life to savour yet. She turned back to the fighting. Mourning took place _after _a battle. Now she must kill.

She stood up swiftly, and fired another four: two direct hits, this time, but the two others - though they hit their target - were not strong enough to kill. She ducked again, but not before she saw something that shocked her: a boat, laden with foul orcs, being launched from a hidden port on the other side of the river. This was grim news indeed, and likely to turn the tide of the battle for good. The foul things must have been working secretly in Osgiliath for many months now. A fleet of boats made Faramir's whole brave stand at the ford pointless. She had to move quickly, or he would be encircled in a ring of foes, and massacred.

She fought to keep her breathing calm and steady, to not let fear make her rash. She quickly searched out a well-protected route through the rubble with her eyes. Before she sprang out on nimble feet to follow it, she whispered to the dead man, 'Îdh vi sîdh, tolog maethor.' _Rest in peace, stalwart warrior._ And then she ran.

'Faramir, you _must _retreat!' She shouted in frustration. She wanted to reach over and shake him as one would do an erring child, but she didn't have the time: her hands were to busy directing _Celebdîn_'s blade into orc and goblin flesh. 'You cannot win this battle!' She side-stepped quickly to avoid a thrust of some primitive blade, and returned it with a lethally effective slash.

Faramir's stance was easy, and he never turned to look at her while he fought, devoid of all emotion, almost like a machine. His voice was fitting: cold and deadly calm, with only the mildest stresses when he put an exceptional amount of effort into a sword-stroke. 'I can't back down till the very end, Mithmír. We can win this yet.'

'What makes you so stubborn and so _blind_, Faramir?'

He ignored it. 'Change weapons, Mithmír. Use your daggers. That sword's nearly cutting _me _in half when you swing it.'

Obediently and quickly she followed his wise words, and switched to a more "finesse" style of fighting with the light weapons. The calm, lithe movements of her body betrayed the strength in her coiled form. She ducked, twisted and spun from one foe to the next. She wasn't averted from her purpose, however. 'Why, Faramir? What makes you, who were so wise, so rash?'

Still he wouldn't look at her. 'No reason, Mithmír, but that I _cannot _give in here.'

'Why can you not?' She sprung on this slight hole in his verbal shell as quickly as on the next orc that approached her. Her hand was cut, but in the heat of battle - with adrenaline coursing through her - she ignored it.

He was silent for so long she nearly asked again, when suddenly he replied, 'my father ordered it, Mithmír, and I _will _be a good son to him!' He let out an animal cry of rage and brutally struck a uruk-hai over the head with his sword. It's helmet was no resistance to the rage-lent power of that blow, and the beast's skull was cleaved like ripe fruit by a knife.

Mithmír didn't let herself be shocked by that unusual show of anger. 'You _are _a good son, Faramir,' she replied kindly. 'Your father will see that, when this grief has passed.'

He finally looked at her, and his eyes were more empty than she had ever seen them before. 'How can you be so sure.' He said softly, so softly that somehow it could be heard despite the raging battle about them. It was not a question, but a statement.

'I am as sure as I can be, Faramir,' she said with great compassion in her voice. 'Do not throw -' and here she struck a particularly violent stabbing blow with both daggers - 'your life away on a whim ordered in sorrow!'

'It is the best thing I can do for my father, the Steward Denethor.' Faramir said in an odd voice.

'Do not lie to yourself, Faramir,' Mithmír half-ordered. 'The best thing you can do for him - for _me _- for all of us - is to _live_.' Her eyes beseeched him. 'I beg of you, Faramir. You have the soul that has bowed to no man before pleading you on bent knees in love. You said you would not leave me alone to grieve. If you die here, I die too.'

Finally Faramir's shoulders sagged, and he nodded. 'You're right, as always, sael dúnedhel [_wise elf_]. We retreat, whatever my father says on this. I cannot let my men die for such a cause as this.' And he looked at the ruins about him with cleared eyes. 'If they have boats, there is no hope for the stopping of their crossing, and if we move not soon our retreat shall be halted by a line of orcs.'

'I am glad your mind is decided rightly, Faramir,' she said, and there was an odd pride in her voice - whether in herself or her friend, it could not be told. 'We call the men of Gondor to your banner, then!' And in a clear, unwavering voice, she cried out with such force - of heart or body or both - that all living Gondor men hearkened: 'retreat, defenders of the White City! Men of Gondor, fall back! Retreat to Minas Tirith! Retreat behind the banner of your captain, Faramir!'

And Faramir's strong, bold voice, deeper than Mithmír's, begun when she had ended: 'retreat, men of Gondor! Retreat with all speed to Minas Tirith! All brave souls of the rear-guard, come to Faramir's side!' And then he blew twice, thrice, four times on the horn that was slung around his neck. Already the soldiers had begun to move: walking backwards, fighting as they went, or running as fast as they could. The bravest of the archers did not run, but stood firm and stemmed the flood of enemies that followed with hundreds of well-aimed arrows. Faramir's power and charisma as a leader was proved then, as was his men's love for him. No fewer than seventy men flocked to his side to act as rear-guard. He turned to one, an older man who should have been fighting no more, and to him he said: 'run you to the Hall, and there mount my horse. Ride as quick as you can to the White Tower, and summon aid.'

The man would have insisted on staying, were it not for the grave look in his Captain's eyes. He nodded quickly, and began to run, but before he was out of hearing Mithmír called to him: 'nay, good sir! Mount the stallion that stands there; for he is a fleet-footed horse indeed.' The man turned, and, stumbling, bowed in thanks to her. Mithmír trusted Brialvastor to let the man ride him. He would sense the need, and, she hoped, Mithmír's agreement. She would also hate to see her faithful steed mauled by the creatures that pursued them. Better to have him far away from the trouble.

'A generous gift,' Faramir said with a smile. 'And one well given. Brialvastor shall be returned, lady, you have my word.'

Mithmír smiled. 'Now let us flee, my Captain, before the Black Riders join in the chase of us!'

And flee they did.

***

It would be better if she was fighting beside Legolas, not Faramir. LOL! Hope you enjoyed it!


	23. What Love Makes Us Do

This chapter is quite short I know, but it reached a convenient stopping-point and so… Today I have been typing for about three hours, so I've got a decent amount done. Please read, review and enjoy!

***

The white horse, and indeed its rider, were like nothing she had ever seen before. Even though she was battle-weary, and her head was beginning to spin, Mithmír could not help but see that this horse was the noblest still living: and so must be the renowned Shadowfax, whom at the last she had heard would accept no rider. She paused her fighting for a second and gazed open mouthed at the flowing creature galloping on hooves of wind-speed towards her; and his rider, who seemed to be clad all in white light.

The great horse stopped by Faramir's side, pawing the ground in wish to either fight or flee. Its rider was an old man, his face not tired but wise. Mithmír gasped - it could not be Gandalf! He had fallen into the shadow many miles away in Moria… But it was soon proved to her that it was, indeed, Gandalf, for Faramir looked - some men stepped before him to protect him from the line of attacking orcs - and cried,

'Mithrandir, my friend and teacher! Why come you here?'

The wizard, one of the Istari, Mithmír reminded herself in awe, frowned a little and then said in a deep, old voice: 'you must come, Faramir. Heed not your father's rash words. He loves you in his heart, and shall realise it before the end. Come with me, leave this futile stand, and return to the safety of Minas Tirith.'

Faramir looked up at him boldly. 'How many of my men - my _friends _- can you fit on Shadowfax's back, Mithrandir? Can you save all of my men? I stay no longer for my father, Gandalf, but for my comrades in arms, who have served me faithfully, and will so to the end. If I leave, this line shall waver and fall. Not only shall all these brave men - and woman -' he smiled a little at Mithmír, who was staring wide-eyed at the wizard - 'die, but the rearguard shall be no more, and all the men who are even now fleeing to the city shall be overtaken and massacred. No, Gandalf, I shall not come with you. Flee from here, and leave us to fight.'

The wizard sighed deeply. 'It is your choice, Faramir. I cannot order you to do what I ask, for you are no boy any longer but a man. But this is your last chance to be delivered from this darkness, and I ask you again: _will you come_?' His bushy eyebrows bristled.

Faramir appeared to consider this. Finally, he spoke, and boldly. 'Nay, Gandalf. But I beg you: take this brave lady here with you. I would not have her die beside me.'

Mithmír felt like the whole world had been swept from beneath her feet. She grasped Faramir's arm and beseeched him; 'Faramir! Why do you say these things? We will not die here! I _will _continue to fight by you, even until the second my heart is stilled. I will not be sent away like some ordinary Lady of Gondor! I am a warrior like any man here!' Her heart beat painfully inside her chest with panic.

'Aye, Mithmír,' Faramir said sternly, 'but I love you more than any man who stands here beside me today, even more than I love myself.'

'_I_ _will not go_!' She screamed, horrified to find herself close to tears.

Faramir's face was oddly white, but he spoke the words nevertheless: 'you are a soldier in my army, Mithmír, and under my command like any other. I _order _you to go.'

She stepped back instantly, shocked. 'Faramir! Who are you to order me about so? We agreed in Ithilien…' Her eyes betrayed her horror and deep hurt at his words.

'I _love _you, Mithmír, my sister,' he said firmly. 'And one day you will understand why I have to do this.' Before she could react, he brought up his sword-hilt and struck her helmet so hard that the light in her eyes instantly dimmed, and she fell unconscious into his waiting, gentle arms. His face was creased with lines of sorrow beyond his years when he carefully kissed her pale cheek. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'Forgive me. Forgive my great love for you which made me do this.' And then he passed her with great care to Gandalf, who put her before him in the saddle with equal softness.

'Take care of her for me, Gandalf,' Faramir said finally. The words carried double meaning; or rather, double time span: look after her until I get back from the battle, or forever if I never do.

'I shall do all that is in my power to keep that promise,' nodded Gandalf gravely. 'But before I go, Faramir - who is this "grey-stone" to you?'

'A half-elf who is as dear to me as sister, and the woman I love most in the world,' Faramir replied. 'Aragorn knows her. Take her to him. And if not, give orders for her to be treated as a Lady of high rank, for so she is.'

'I shall see to it, Faramir,' replied Gandalf evenly. 'Fight well, brave man of Gondor.' And with that he turned Shadowfax quickly about, and with a call in Quenya they sprang away over the dark grass to the white walls of the city.

***

Depressed… [grumble]… no Legolas and Faramir being too damn protective… Must write quicker!


	24. An Unexpected Visitor

***Random Note: just to remind everyone out there that I do NOT own LOTR, or any characters that I haven't created (use your common sense) and so don't sue me.***

Excuse the bad Sindarin. Just for anyone interested - [looks accusingly at dizzy izzy and satiana in particular] - Legolas is not in the next chapter BUT HE IS IN THE ONE AFTER THAT. So look out chapter 26, 'cos here comes Legolas! Yay!

Please read and review. More reviews = more Legolas (blatant bribe I know, but hey, it might just work)

Enjoy!

***

She woke again many hours later; and it may have been night, or it may have been day, but she could not tell, and little difference it would make to know, or so it seemed to her. For a while she sat on the edge of the kingly bed she occupied and cried, wondering at Faramir's words, and where he might be now. She did not blame him, in her heart, but she wished she had stayed by his side, protecting him to the last. For surely, the last had come, unless some great help had been sent out to them.

When her eyes were dry and her mood more composed, she washed quickly in the water provided, and then dressed. The clothes laid out suited not her person at all, for it was a lady's gown and sash. She instead took the liberty of searching the chests about her - she did not care whether she was found out - and withdrew a stout pair of breeches and a tunic; wandering clothes such as she was used to wearing. She put them on quickly, and was delighted - and dismayed - to find that they smelled of Faramir: his odd scent which was a mix of books, horses and sweat; a musk that was not unpleasant but reassuring. She held the fabric up to her nose and breathed deeply. 'Ias reviale, Faramir?' She said on the exhale softly. _Where do you wander, Faramir?_

There was a knock on the chamber door. She spun around quickly. When nothing more happened, she found her tongue and said in a wavering voice, 'enter.' The person to come in was no less that Gandalf himself, who was leaning on his staff as if weary. He smiled kindly, and the walked slowly over to a chair by the fire, on which he sat. He looked at her oddly for a good long while, and then said, 'so this is the maid that Faramir called his sister!'

She nodded, feeling very awkward. She didn't know if she was meant to reply. She felt it wasn't a question. Gandalf thoughtfully withdrew a pipe and some weed, and lit it, before putting it to his lips and puffing merrily. Mithmír crinkled her nose. Smoke did not appeal to Elves the same way as it did to Men and Hobbits. That was one way in which they were similar to the dwarves.

'You are half-elven, as he said.'

Again, it was not a question. She shuffled around a little, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

'And of the line of the Rangers of the North, I have been told.' He stared at her for a while again, and then suddenly his face broke into a wide smile. 'All true, all true, of course. And so you are indeed a very high and mighty lady. For all your choice in dress.'

She blushed furiously.

'Do not be ashamed. There is no cause for embarrassment.'

'Where is Faramir?' She said finally.

The wizard stared at her for a while more. 'He is _alive_, if that is what you mean to ask me by your roundabout question. He was struck by a dart from a Southrond. Luckily, the Prince Imrahil and myself brought him to safety. He is asleep now, and still grievously ill, but his father is with him.'

It struck Mithmír an odd twist of fate that Faramir should be poisoned by exactly the same thing as herself many days ago in Ithilien. Her mind strayed towards the hobbits. 'May I see him?'

Gandalf paused for a long while, and blew a few perfect smoke-rings. He finally turned his intense, dark eyes to her. 'No. Not yet. But I swore I should keep you safe, and I shall stay by that promise. My first tactic to keep you from the battle was to only lay out a woman's clothes for you. But,' he chortled merrily and his bright eyes twinkled; 'I see that didn't stop you in the least.'

'Neither shall anything else you try,' she said boldly, holding her head high. 'I _shall _fight for my country!'

'Indeed, indeed,' agreed Gandalf. It put her off balance a bit. She had been expecting a fight. 'I'll hold you back no longer. You have proved your worth in the fight already, and I think you can take care of yourself. But I do ask you to use only your bow, where it is possible, and to be safe.'

'Of course,' she nodded. 'Anything to be allowed to fight.'

'Good good,' said Gandalf. 'My other duty is to lead you to where you may find not only food but your armour and weapons. From there, some soldier or other shall lead you to the Walls, where you may do your fill of fighting, if you so wish.'

'I do so wish,' she said surely.

He chuckled again, before removing his pipe from his mouth. 'Then follow me now.' And so she did.

When she was all kitted up and well-fed, a messenger boy was summoned to her side and Gandalf left, promising to see how Faramir was and tell her later. As the boy led her through the empty streets, past deserted homes and shops, she wondered at how odd it was to finally see the city of her ancestors, and so herself. Even the lack of women and children could not make the beauty of these streets and houses seem less in her eyes.

'Why are you here?' She asked the boy finally. He looked at her oddly for a while, pale eyes flicking often to her pointed ears, and when he at last replied it was without a trace of fear or doubt.

'My mother left with my two sisters, and my baby brother, for the safe places. I was meant to go with them, but I hid. They couldn't find me, and they had to go. When I finally went to my father, an armourer, he could not send me away.' He shrugged. 'I'm thirteen in two days, lady warrior. I'm nearly a man. So I'll help to defend my people's city.'

It was said in such a plain, open way that it struck some chord deep inside Mithmír. This boy was not unlike herself. To the Elves she must seem like him, a mere child wanting to "play" at war. She smiled kindly, and patted his back. 'That's a high ambition for someone your age. Stick to it. But take care of yourself. War isn't all of what they tell in stories.'

'Elves are different from the stories, too,' the boy replied quickly but not rudely. He looked at her in wonder. 'More like _us _than I thought they'd be.'

'I'm only half-elf, so that might explain it,' Mithmír said in explanation. 'Real elves are _just _like the stories - all the good stories, anyway.' She smiled inwardly as she remembered her three best Elven friends: Anoniel, Tirathnavir, and Haldir, who were all so far away now… 'Maybe you'll meet one some day.'

'Maybe.' He replied with a happy grin. 'I want to. One day I'm going to be the best warrior in _all _of Middle-Earth, and I'll be King of Gondor, too, and all the Elves and Dwarves will come to see me…' His face lit up with joy at his dreams. 'That will be _great_.'

'Maybe,' she replied dreamily, but her thoughts were on Aragorn whom she missed greatly. Finally she laughed, and broke into a light jog. 'Come on! Hurry up! I want to get to the Walls!'

The boy, obviously eager also, smiled and laughed out loud, before running after her with all the enthusiasm of the young.

***

Well we're getting there! Not too long till Legolas. LOL!

Annaicuru


	25. Archer On The Gates

Everyone wants Legolas! Including me! So I'm just going to have to write this v. v. quickly… don't worry though I promise you will get your fair share of Leggy later.

Last chapter without Legolas! Hahahahah! Joy! Legolas chapter/s (at least one) will be up by tonight.

Thanks for all the reviews by the way!

Please R&R

***

For many hours Mithmír worked tirelessly in the outer circle. She was not on the Wall, for even her fine bow could not send arrows far enough so as to reach the black tide of the enemy lines. Instead she worked with many of the other soldiers at fighting the fires that were started by the enemy's fire-arrows and fire-stones. She never once took off her helmet through all the long, hot work. She didn't want a crowd of soldiers demanding that she went home like a lady should, or asking about her Elven ears. She smiled to herself as men around her gossiped while they worked about an Elven lady who was rumoured to be fighting alongside them somewhere. It seemed to inspire hope in them, that one of such an ancient race was here to aid them.

She stopped for a pause a while later, and quenched her thirst with water from a water-boy's bucket. It refreshed her greatly to feel the cool liquid flow through her parched mouth and throat. After she had had her fill she passed the bucket to the man who sat beside her. He was around middle age, and his dark face was not without elegant beauty, but there were jagged cuts and burns on the hands that clasped the bucket. When he had finished - and he drank heavily even compared to Mithmír - he handed the bucket back to the waiting boy and then turned to Mithmír, who was re-adjusting her helmet after drinking.

'Have you any news of the Lord Faramir, sir?'

'No. Why? Do you?' She asked, trying to deepen her voice to the pitch of a man's.

'Aye,' he said wearily, getting up himself. 'It's old news though, and you probably know it already.'

'I don't think I do,' said Mithmír, trying to keep her emotions in check. If Gandalf had lied to her about how ill Faramir was… 'I came from the Citadel many hours ago, and have not heard of Faramir since.'

The man looked at her oddly for a second before shaking his head as if to clear it. 'How old are you, soldier? Your voice is high and young.'

'Barely seventeen,' she lied fluently.

'Thought so,' said the man with a grunt as he tightened his breastplate. 'Terrible place this is, for one so young. Well, farewell and good luck.' And he made to move away.

Mithmír reached out and grabbed his hand. 'Please, sir, tell me of Captain Faramir.' It felt odd to call him by the title, but she would have to from now on, she realised, if she wanted to fit in. With barely a second's hesitation she went on, 'I fought beside him in Osgiliath, and he saved me on our retreat over the Pelennor. He is dear to me. Tell me of his fate.' It was almost a prayer.

The man turned to her. 'I hate to be the one to tell you this… Your Captain Faramir lies dying, it is said, in the arms of his father.' And with that he walked away.

She dropped to the ground suddenly, her legs crumpling underneath her, until she kneeled on the smooth paving-stones. A great rushing sound came into her head and she couldn't hear anything else but the torrent of her disbelieving grief. Her eyes glazed over, and though they were open she beheld nothing but a ghost of Faramir's face, beaming widely as he had done when in Ithilien. Her hands clenched into fists, to tight that her knuckles went white, and her nails drew lines of blood into the flesh of her palm. The first sob that overtook her started deep within her stomach, and when it finally burst its way out of her mouth it was an animal cry of remorse that knew no bounds. The tears followed afterwards, as burning tracks of liquid down her face that made her eyes sear. She sat there for nearly twenty minutes, unaware of anything, before finally her eyes cleared, and it could be perceived that a great, furious fire burned within. The men who had not wished to come to her in her grief now had even less wish to do so in her anger. They backed away.

Mithmír got up quickly and nimbly. She glanced towards the Citadel, but it was barely more than that; so brief was its duration. In a second she was away towards the Wall to make herself useful again. She showed outwardly no emotion but anger, but had the learned of Gondor read her hastily moving lips they could have seen her true feelings in her words:

'Alcarle awarthanin, Faramir! Annale nin lín peth, le alinnas awarthanin erui nîr!' _Do not abandon me, Faramir! You gave me your word, that you would not leave me weeping alone!_

She was making her way to the Wall still when the troops of Mordor began their next great terror; and the heads of those slain in Osgiliath were lobbed into the city. She was unaware of the identity of the black shapes flying over the walls for a long while; and even when the crying and shouting began, she was still in ignorance till she was nearly upon the stairs to the Wall. It was then that, upon the ground by her feet, she perceived a face that she had never thought to see again: that of the young archer who had fallen beside her in the city on the river. She thought at first that it was her tired, emotionally-tender mind playing tricks on her: but when she knelt down, she saw the truth of the gruesome thing. Again the fury eclipsed her mind. She stood up silently, dropping the foul thing again, and took the steps up the Wall two at a time.

Finally the enemy's troops came close enough for her and the other archers - the few that had been stalwart enough to remain - to shoot them. Many fell, but more still kept coming, appearing unconscious or uncaring towards their losses. Mithmír shot faster and more accurately than any man there, and many privately wondered who this skilled archer in their midst was, but in the heat of the time there was no space for words. Mithmír's face was composed and deadly, her hand barely pausing from firing one arrow to drawing the next from her quiver. She did not show any sign of recognition when her arrows killed their target. Only when the siege-engines came perilously close, and the great battering-ram named Grond was brought nigh up to the Gate, that she seemed awake at all. With a cry of battle - 'Lacho calad! Drego morn!' which is an ancient cry of the Edain of the North and means, _flame light! Flee night! _- she ran along the ramparts with all the speed of her Elven relatives.

Above and about the Gate the archers were mostly those men from Dol Amroth; who are fabled to be descended partly from the First Born, and there is more evidence to prove this than to disclaim it. Mithmír took her place easily among them, even though she knew they had heard her cry and so knew her nature.

The archer closest to her spoke, without turning from his shooting: 'why do you hide your ears as if ashamed, lady elf?'

With equal concentration she replied, 'do you remove your helmet while we fight merely to prove that you are human by the shape of your ears; and a man by your face?'

The man laughed out loud, despite the shadows of the Black Riders that swept above them. 'Well said!' He replied with mirth. 'Well, I count myself both blessed and lucky to have one of the Fair Folk fighting on my right hand side!'

She smiled a little, despite her worry for Faramir. 'And I am lucky also, for the knights of Dol Amroth are some of the most courageous in all of Middle-Earth.'

'Then we are equals and so allies and friends!' Agreed the knight, but there was no time to say any more, for Grond was thrust into the Gate of Minas Tirith, and the entire Wall shook. Many men lost their footing, and some of the most unlucky fell many feet backwards into the City, meeting with death instantly on the hard cobbles. Mithmír's sharp eyes followed one such unfortunate, and in doing so she saw a great thing: Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, was riding Shadowfax towards the Gate, and when he was barely a few metres away he stopped suddenly. He sat tall and lordly in the saddle, and the horse below him showed the same characteristics in his bold stance, which was unafraid, despite the terror approaching on the other side of the Gate.

She was so looking when the second and final thrust of Grond came; for when it hit the Gate, the previously steadfast wood and stone was shattered, and fell inward. The shock moved the Wall so greatly that many more men fell, and indeed Mithmír - with her half-elf reactions - grabbed the knight who had befriended her to stop him meeting similar fate. He would have thanked her profusely, asked her name, but again his words were cut short, by a great fear. The same fear took over every man on the Wall, and Mithmír too felt it settle like some chill mantle over her heart. Her breath became harder; it got caught in her restricted chest.

The Witchking of Angmar, bane of the Edain and, indeed, all free people of Middle Earth, stepped into the City - to be confronted by Mithrandir. There was silence, and Mithrandir spoke. Later Mithmír could not remember the words, and even at the time they were blurred, for it was then - after a timely cock's crow - that the horns of war blew out across the Pelennor to the North East; and the cry went up:

'The Rohirrim! The Rohirrim are here!'

And suddenly her heart was as high as the hidden sun, and it flew on wings of new-found hope and joy renewed.

***

Next chapter you get LEGOLAS! Yay!


	26. Elven Miracle

Sorry it's a short chapter but there's **_LEGOLAS_**!!!!!!!!

Next chapter you will actually get to see him _and _Mithmír together, I promise.

***

It was with renewed vigour that the archers raised their bows again; for as surely as Rohan was come to the aid of Gondor and the old friendship was rekindled, the Witchking was gone. There was new hope in the battle. Archers poured from the city to return to their posts on the Outer Wall; and the defences of Gondor were made strong again. The Gondorian foot-army and cavalry was also assembled; and in under half an hour their brave war-songs were started, the horns blowing, and they moved out - out of the ruined Gates and onto the Pelennor to fight!

Mithmír leaped down the stairs of the Wall, and drawing her daggers followed them out. She may have promised Mithrandir that she would not enter into hand-to-hand combat, but then he had lied to her about Faramir; and she would hold to that promise no longer.

The fighting was fast, thick and furious. Mithmír dodged easily from one orc or tall Haradrim to the next, her daggers flashes of silver accompanying her lithe body in a deadly dance. Inevitably her long, dark hair came free from her helmet and swirled about her too; until she was some whirling messenger of death to her enemies; and her allies looked upon her with wonder.

Mithmír was riding on an adrenaline high. Faramir and his plight was almost gone from her mind in the pure blood-lust. Later she would hate herself for the feelings she harboured then: an intense desire to kill; and she would feel they made her unclean; but at the time they were the most natural of all things. She was the blades; she was the blood; she was the _pain_. A smile was fixed on her face.

She was only awakened from her intense emotions when the black ships were seen to be coming up the Anduin. A shiver shot through her from feet to the tips of her pointed ears. She realised how cut off she was from the White City; how open to the merciless attacks of the Corsairs of Umbar. Fear replaced the lust for blood. She prayed for a miracle; as did everyone fighting for the West that day.

And, for once, a miracle came.

Legolas looked out from the boat. The fresh wind caught his hair and blew it out in a pretty fan about his head; and his blue eyes sparkled like the water. He stood there, perfectly poised, every sense highly aware.

'What do you see, Elf?' Asked Gimli, trying to peer over the side of the boat without any success.

'I see fighting, fighting on the Pelennor…' Legolas replied softly. 'the Rohirrim have come to the aid of Minas Tirith, and they fight well, but nevertheless the enemy's hordes are the larger. There are Haradrim and Southronds there too; not only the uruk-hai and orcs.'

'It seems we come just in time, then, friend!' The stout Gimli said. He found a nearby breastplate and, with much satisfaction, found that if he balanced on it perfectly he could see over the ledge. His eyes went wide. 'Well, Elf! We'll have no shortage of enemies to fight today! Now we'll truly get to see if the Elven daggers or Dwarven axe is better in battle!'

Legolas looked down at him and smiled with all he beauty of his race. 'Agreed, master Gimli! But I wonder…' he paused here, and his bright eyes scanned the fields quickly, 'what allies we shall meet again?' Gimli did not reply, and Legolas was glad. He needed to think. For some reason the odd elf-maid who he had met in Lothlorien; and who had followed them down the Anduin; had been on his mind recently. Elves trust their intuition, and Legolas took this very seriously. He wondered if here, indeed, they should meet again. He hoped they would. She was different from anyone he had ever met before - so passionate in every emotion she displayed, so intense, and yet, she kept herself so far apart from everyone else…

When the ships ground to a halt in the shallow waters, Legolas' train of thought was stopped, for the less-agile Gimli was thrown from his vantage point by the impact. Legolas helped him up, but made sure he himself was one of the first to jump nimbly, as graceful as a landing bird, to the shore. By the time Gimli was down he had already drawn his fine daggers, and was practising intricate strokes in the air. His face was taken over by a look of intense concentration, of the kind that only Elves are capable. It struck any who watched that Elves made fighting an art, and a beautiful one at that.

Without any ceremony at all Gimli withdrew his axe, and shouted over the hubbub of battle: 'let's go hunting, Elf!' He looked quickly behind them. 'And let's go quickly so we're not fighting by the Dead ones!' He shivered.

Legolas laughed, and the sound was like water falling into a pool. 'Very well, Gimli,' he replied. 'I shall beat you this time in the count of slain!'

'We'll see about _that_!' Gimli replied indignantly, and with a dwarven cry of rage he charged into battle beside his friend.


	27. Compliments Not Accepted

****

Thanks for all the reviews! Answers to the questions are on the 'reviews' page.

I am v. v. busy tonight and I don't have time to proof-read; but if you point things out to me I will correct them a.s.a.p.

Please R&R and don't forget to enjoy it!

***

'Aragorn!' She cried in wonder. 'Le teli!' _You have come!_

He embraced her strongly, kissing the top of her head with fierce, protective love. 'You silly, silly girl-child!' He berated her finally, letting her step back but still holding her, and shaking her furiously. 'Why in the name of the Valar did you _directly _disobey not only myself but your own parents and the Elves?!'

A stubborn look came over her, and she set her jaw determinedly, but did not reply.

He shook her again, squeezing her arms so tight to her that she found it hard to breath. 'Mithmír, my friend-daughter, why did you put yourself into such danger? Why could you not stay in the North, by Imladris, living up to your name as Rochiwen, horse-maid? Why come to war and feel sorrow?'

'Why did you, Aragorn!' She shouted back fiercely. 'Why did you?'

He finally sighed, and let her go, before embracing her. 'Why did I, indeed, why did I. We're very alike, you and I, after all. Your father is here,' he said finally with a wry grin. 'You'll have to go through all this again with him, you know.'

'Daddy? Daddy's here?' Mithmír shouted in joy. 'Where? Why?'

'Where? He's somewhere on the Pelennor, that is all I know. And why? All the Dúnedain are here, to fight for their ancestral home,' replied Aragorn.

'Yes!' Mithmír pounced on his words. 'All of the Dúnedain old enough to bear weapons are here - and that includes myself!'

Aragorn laughed deeply. 'Well said, little elfling!' Elfling was his pet name for her. 'I see your warrior spirit is unquenchable, and that's not a bad thing…' he chuckled a little, 'but maybe being a little less stubborn would do you good!' Suddenly he looked seriously at her. 'How were the hobbits when you left them?'

'You know of them?' She said warily, and let go of his hand. 'How do you know I went with them?'

An Elf stepped up beside Aragorn. He took her hand and kissed it gently. 'Lady Mithmír, I told him.'

She gasped and blushed furiously. She wasn't used to being treated as such a high lady. 'Oh,' she said rather lamely. 'Oh.'

'Forgive me,' the Elf said. 'I thought he had a right to know…'

Mithmír suddenly realised who this elf _was_, underneath all the armour. 'Legolas!' She said, a little louder and a lot more joyfully than she'd meant to. She gained her composure quickly, but noticed that he smiled at her reaction to seeing him. 'Of _course_ you're forgiven.'

Aragorn chuckled knowingly. So the feelings that Legolas had let slip when he told Aragorn of Mithmír tracking the hobbits were mutual! To think, Mithmír falling for an Elf-prince… Thranduil's son, no less. He sighed. Hard times were ahead for the pair, if they ever admitted their feelings. There were only three ways they could ever marry, to the best of his knowledge (and because of Arwen he was an expert on the subject): if Mithmír turned out to be immortal, which was, in theory, possible, but the chances were incomprehensibly slim; if Legolas gave up his immortality; or if Mithmír was offered immortality as Elrond Half-Elven had been for his valour in battle.

Aragorn bowed. 'I must go to battle, Legolas, Mithmír. I shall meet you later, if the Valar will it!' And with that he was away, the Sword That Was Broken shining in his hand with the light of a pale dawn.

'I ask you again to forgive me,' Legolas said finally. Mithmír couldn't tear her gaze away from his enrapturing blue eyes. She nodded dumbly. 'I knew you were following us, but when we reached Nen Hithoel and I didn't see you again… I assumed you must have gone with the hobbits or…' He stopped emphatically.

'I don't mind,' she said in reply, 'I would only have minded if I had been stopped from coming here.'

Legolas looked troubled for a second, and he nipped his lower lip as if nervous. 'Thiale bain sui elenath an enni.' _You appear as beautiful as the stars to me._

Mithmír's heart missed a beat. Maybe some part of her had dreamed of this… but larger portion of her min was suspicious, and feared that it was being lied to. 'Hennaid an lín pethenath, Legolas, dan egleria alinnas caro enni díhenale pân.' _Thanks for your compliments, Legolas, but praise will not make me forgive you wholly._

'Im althel ha sui man pedle…' _I did not mean it like that… _He said, and genuine concern came into his eyes.

'Im iast le maer maeth.' _I wish you good fighting, _she said firmly, and then strode off, her mind in a turmoil. She had never been this confused before. She liked Legolas, yes, he was easy to be around - or so she judged from the little time she had spent with him - but her feelings for him were all mixed up. She wondered vaguely if she was attracted to him while she set to work on a band of uruk-hai. She had always thought that if you liked someone it would be clear-cut, set in stone: you liked them wholly, and they returned the affections. Now a little of her naïve-ness was dispelled. She realised it was not that simple.

'He's an Elf,' she reminded herself as she finished off a fallen orc with a downwards stab. 'Immortal. He'll go beyond the Sea, leave you here. You should find yourself' she panted a little as she dodged a flying blade 'a nice, mortal Man, and put this Elf out of your head…' It sounded so _easy _when she said it. But she couldn't stop thinking about his pretty face, his beautiful eyes… And Aragorn's slightly smug grin when he left them. What did _he _know about Legolas - or herself - that she didn't?

***

Finally some half-decent Legolas in this story. Phew! If only Mithmír could admit her feelings…

Just in case anyone doesn't know; Elrond is called the Half-Elven because he is - dun dun dun! - a half-elf. He was so brave in war against Morgoth (first Dark Lord) that the Valar told he and his brother that they could chose to be Elves or men. Elrond's brother remained mortal, but he became immortal.


	28. Collapse And Rescue

WARNING: serious legomance content! (Well not really that serious as this is a PG-13, but still…)

I hope this is what you had in mind when you said you wanted Legolas!

Please R&R. All feedback welcome.

***

When the battle was done she realised she was far from the City. Her legs felt like they could not bear to walk another step; and a weariness had penetrated her that went deep into her soul. It was not a tiredness of body alone. Her senses were dulled; and she was aware of many pains over her body. Worst was a cut all along the palm of her left hand, and it went deep: she had gained it when she was forced to grab a dagger so as to stop it hitting herself. Her right hand had stopped it moving deeper in, but never the less the wound was bad, though it was a clean cut.

There were some other men near her on the battlefield, but she was too tired to run and catch them up. She walked towards the far city with painful slowness, dragging her feet and scuffing her toes on the bodies of the fallen. Her eyes drooped slowly but steadily. Every now and again she put her hand up to the corner of her tunic - which protruded a little from under her armour - and wiped away any fresh blood. She was feeling dizzy. She was still an hour or two's walk from the City when she heard a horse coming up behind her. She was too tired to turn her head to see who it was.

She found out soon enough. The horse was of Rohan, she noticed despite her fatigue. The voice of its rider was familiar, too, and she scowled to find that _true _Elves didn't get as tired as quickly as half-elves or Men. They walked side by side for a while in silence, after the initial greeting in the Common Tongue. When Legolas started talking properly, however, it was in Sindarin.

'Innas annale enni dâf an garle bo nín roch?' _Will you give me permission to carry you on my horse?_

'Ú.' _No_. She was set in a stubborn mood now, and it would take more than a little hardship to make her allow this Elf to help her. She would do it on her own.

They walked side in side, horse and rider beside woman, for maybe another half-hour. The City drew closer, but their approach was agonising in its slowness.

'Padaim innas,' he said pleadingly. _I will walk. _Oddly enough, pleading does not make Elves sound lowly, but more high and noble. Mithmír felt something odd stir in her; an emotion she had felt little of before. She dearly would like to ride; and without the Elf might make it less a sign of defeat in her eyes… But she would not separate a rider from his horse. If she were a male warrior it would be considered rude for her to do so, and she would be treated like any other soldier.

' Ú.' _No_.

Seconds later she tripped over, and was too weary to get up. Instead she lay on the battlefield, spread-eagled on her back. She closed her eyes. She just wanted to _sleep_…

She heard Legolas dismount quickly and nimbly. She almost _felt _the tremors in the air as he knelt down beside her. She tried to persuade herself that she was too tired to resist; but really she enjoyed the proximity despite herself… Maybe being a Lady wouldn't be too bad after all… She drifted off into day-dreams. Her awakening was rude but not unpleasant: Legolas had given up restraining himself, and having slipped off her helmet, touched his lips with hers softly. It couldn't be called a kiss, merely a touch. He withdrew within a second, and sat back on his heels, watching for her reaction.

She didn't dare move. She _thought _that she liked it, but she couldn't be sure. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would break all her ribs.

'Le bain, beren elleth,' he whispered, and the wind swept nearly all of his caring voice away, but enough reached Mithmír's ears for her to translate it: _you beautiful, brave elf-maid. _'Im meleth le, o abim minui govannenle, dimallorn vi Lothlorien…' _I have loved you since I first met you, under the mallorn in Lothlorien…. _'Lamale sui gwaew ned mallorn, le hin sui míren…' _Your voice is like the wind in the mallorn trees, your eyes like jewels…_

With every word Mithmír felt she was falling deeper and deeper into some blissful trance. Her eyes were still not open. She had to speak, though. 'Im sell, úlelleth.' _I am a girl, not an elf-maid._

She felt an ivory-smooth, warm finger on her lips, and it lay there till she was hushed. Finally its owner spoke, and he must have been leaning over her, for his breath tickled her face: ' Úlcaroim hûl.' _It does not bother me. _'Im ûlcar daro olthaole…' _I could not stop dreaming of you…_

'Le a im govannen tâd lû…' _We have only met twice. _She was wonderfully, terribly aware that every time her lips moved they came near to touching Legolas'.

'Innas daer gwanod,' replied Legolas, and his voice was maybe - almost imperceptibly if it was - a little hoarse. _There will be many more._

Mithmír sighed. This would not be like Faramir. He would not have one night to prove his love for her. His articulate, beautifully chosen words were enough. In her heart, she loved him. Her mind was trying to hold her back, however…

'Im meleth le,' he said finally, simply, and then kissed her gently, never opening his lips. _I love you_.

Her eyes were still closed when he picked her up into his deceptively delicate arms, and put her in the saddle. She gripped onto the pommel as he told her, and in a second his had sprung up behind her. He took the reins and enclosed her in-between his back and arms, and then with a cry in Sindarin to the horse they were away to the City. Mithmír had never felt so safe nor so loved. She didn't care who of Gondor saw them like this. For now, at least.


	29. Regret

Well here we are again… Yeah I'm aware that the last chapter moved v. v. fast but that's all this chapter deals with - why it happened. Thanks for the reviews!

Please R&R

***

Aragorn told her of the plight of Faramir - or rather how he had been nearly killed by his maddened father and rescued by the Future King - over dinner. His face was grave, and quelled Mithmír's already failing spirits instantly. Legolas, who was sitting beside her, also lost his slight smile.

'Will he live?' Asked Mithmír frantically, dropping her bread on the table.

'Yes,' Aragorn replied evenly. 'But I'd prefer it if you didn't visit him.'

'WHY?' She demanded, incensed. Legolas mumbled for her to calm down. Despite herself she was annoyed at him for ordering her about so. They had only been off the Pelennor fields for two or three hours; but already she was horrified at what she'd let the Elf _do_. She was a warrior first, lady second, and she'd let him treat her like any common girl. It was as if the time on the field had been a dream. She was starting to think she'd not been thinking straight because of blood loss. She determined to let him know that she _wasn't interested, thank you very much_. She cringed to think of who might have seen him carry her up to the healers…

Legolas was also feeling confused. It was as if for a while there, in the hot day, things had become unreal; he'd said things he didn't even know if he really felt like a silly elf-boy with a crush…

'He's still very ill indeed,' Aragorn explained, giving Mithmír a look which _made _her be quiet. It was an order, even if it wasn't put across verbally. 'Seeing you might… distress him.' He raised a hand to stop her outburst - 'and you'll be angry at him for what he did to you.'

'How do _you _know about that?' Asked Mithmír, mouth agape and eyes wide. 'Who told you?'

'It doesn't matter, Mithmír,' Aragorn replied, and took a determined mouthful of soup. 'But I've told the Keeper of the Houses of Healing to not let you see him on any condition until I come with you.'

Mithmír stood up angrily, her chair tipping over behind her. 'Aragorn, I _love _him!' She shouted, and was surprised to find tears welling up in her eyes. 'He means so much to me… You can't keep me from him like this!'

Legolas was only dimly aware of the battle of words which was being fought beside him. He was only conscious of Mithmír's words: _I love him… I love him… I love him… _He bent down further over his soup and began to eat it neatly. So he was wrong anyway, this lady was for Faramir. Well it made his confusing emotions much easier to deal with. He hoped she would forget his hasty words on the fields. He felt a rosy tint come to his pale skin when he thought of what he had said. It had been so _stupid _of him… He barely knew her and he'd let a mere physical attraction take over his senses. It wouldn't happen again, though, he promised himself.

'Aragorn, the last time you held me back like this I did it anyway!' Mithmír reminded the man. 'The same will happen again.' And she made to storm out, but Aragorn's next words, spoken calmly and simply, made her hesitate:

'Don't run to your father for help, Mithmír. He is also ill in the Houses.'

She whirled around on the spot, her eyes filled with worry. 'Why? What ailment has he?'

'Merely a bad sword cut to his left arm,' Aragorn replied almost lazily, helping himself to more bread. 'You can see _him_, if you want.'

Mithmír felt so much anger towards the cool, calculating Aragorn at that moment that she didn't trust herself to speak. She glared at him, glared at Legolas' back for good measure, and then stormed out.

The dining room stayed quiet for a few seconds, and then the babble of many voices slowly built up again.

Aragorn turned to Legolas. 'Why so silent, Elf?'

Legolas turned his blue eyes to him but was silent for a while. 'Why should I talk?' He said finally, slowly.

'I have seen the way you look at her,' Aragorn said softly so only the Elf could hear. 'When you told me of her your eyes were even brighter than they are now. When you brought her into the City with you that embrace was not merely one soldier helping a weary comrade.'

'I do not know of what you speak,' Legolas denied. His eyes showed no flicker of emotion. 'She is a human, and I an elf-prince. We are not at all similar.'

'Don't lie.' Aragorn could be exceedingly infuriating, Legolas decided, with his calm father-like attitude.

'Maybe I did once, Aragorn,' he said firmly, and his blue eyes sparked with contained emotions, 'but that was a silly moment brought on by loss of blood and too much heat. It was a one-off loss of control that I am very ashamed of. It shall not happen again.'

Aragorn looked at him piercingly for a while; and Legolas did not back down and avert his eyes. 'Very well,' he said finally. 'I'll take your word for it. I'm going out of the City now to sleep in my pavilion…' And he walked away, thinking hard. So _that _explained the awkward mood over dinner. He frowned. Was he right in thinking that maybe… possibly… Legolas had misinterpreted Mithmír's words on Faramir?


	30. Riding In His Place

Please check the **reviews **page; I have posted one correcting my mistake on why Elrond became Elven. I was _kind of _right-ish… maybe… or not. Ah well. Basically he was half-elven and of high lineage on his Human side… (Sense any familiarities with a certain half-elf in _this_ time??!!) And so the Valar granted him the choice. It did kind of have something to do with the War of Wrath, though, because he was given the choice after.

Hope you're enjoying this! Please R&R

***

She grasped her father's right hand in between her own; so hard she thought she'd never be able to let go. He looked so _frail _lying there, helpless, with his left arm bundled in bandages and stinking of healing-weed. Mithmír had an odd feeling that he was the child and she the adult. For all her independent and rebellious spirit, she didn't like it.

'Daddy?' She asked quietly, nearly begging for him to respond. 'Daddy, it's Mithmír…' She kissed his pale hand lovingly. 'Wake up, daddy.' In some ways the half-elf had never grown up. She had always been closer to her father than her mother; he had been her protector and mentor. He was much more accessible than her mother, whose serene beauty and air of wisdom could make her harder to approach. She had never stopped calling him "daddy".

The healer, Disde, who stood beside her, shook her head kindly. 'He's probably too sleepy, child, and he needs his rest. I'll call you when he wakes, if you want.'

Mithmír nodded through teary eyes. For once she couldn't care less about being called "child". 'My thanks, Disde. That would be wonderful, if you could.' She got up from kneeling, her legs besieged by pins and needles, and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 'He will get better, won't he?' She asked with the worry plain in her voice and eyes.

'Of course, dear,' Disde assured her. 'His arm will never be as strong as it was, but it'll still be able to wield light weapons and do most things. It's not the end of the world, however much it may seem like it is now.' She patted Mithmír on the shoulder kindly. 'Don't worry yourself about your father, lass. He's a strong, brave man - or should I say, Dúnedain.' She smiled kindly, and then propelled Mithmír firmly away and out of the Houses of Healing. 'I'll contact you when he wakes up,' she said finally, and then shut the door.

Mithmír's head was hanging as she made her way back to Faramir's room, where she had been told she could stay as long as he was ill. Guest rooms were hard to come by in the City, which was now crowded by the Men of Rohan, the Dúnedain, and men from some lesser kingdoms as wellas the Gondorians themselves.

She bathed quickly in the scented water, and was asleep the second her head touched the pillow.

She saw nothing of Legolas or Aragorn for some days afterwards; for they were engaged in meetings in the pavilions on the plain. She was lonely, but for her uncle only. Her mind had been made up about the elf: she had behaved childishly in the extreme, and from now on she would be courteous to the elf but no more. She wondered at how she had got so carried away.

She was kept busy in those days; carrying messages mostly, which irked her, but sometimes she would be given a more enjoyable task, such as learning to forge weapons in the smithy; especially when her hand was mostly healed. Her father awakened, and they shared a tearful reunion and swapped many tales. On the fifth or sixth day, she could not remember which, she emerged from her room in the morning to find the elf standing in the corridor outside. He looked slightly abashed, but his stance was proud and tall. He bowed politely, and she bobbed a little in place of a curtsy, never once taking her eyes off him.

'Yes,' she said finally, her look suspicious. Without thinking she ran a hand nervously through her hair. She had just washed it and it was still damp and cool against her neck.

'I have come with a message from Aragorn,' he said with remarkable composure. 'He says that you are to be told that you need not disobey his orders any more.'

'I'm sorry?' She asked with impeccable manners. _If he can be polite, _she thought somewhat bitterly, _so can I._

'We march to war before the Black Gates tomorrow morn,' Legolas explained. A flicker of some unidentifiable emotion passed like a shadow over his fair face. It may have been fear.

'That's _suicide_!' Mithmír broke out before she could stop herself. She felt herself blush instantly.

'We go to war anyway, lady,' Legolas replied calmly, 'for the sake of the hobbits Sam and Frodo. Aragorn wants you to ride with us.'

Mithmír grasped the door-frame so tight her knuckles went white. 'Me? Ride with you? _Really_?' There was immeasurable hope, and joy, and above all shocked disbelief in her eyes. 'Why? What makes him suddenly think a mere woman is good enough for war?' After so long of being snubbed for her sex, she was hesitant to believe.

Legolas couldn't stop himself smiling a little. 'Your father gave you permission. He cannot ride to war himself because of his wound. He says that you should represent him.'

'_Really_?' She asked, a broad smile creeping over her. 'You are the bearer of wonderful news today, Prince Legolas!' She laughed spontaneously. 'Well I had better prepare my weapons then!'

'Indeed,' he replied, and then bowed before moving away. He sighed deeply when he had finally turned the corner and was out of her sight. Men were so obvious; they lacked the subtlety of Elves. Mithmír sleeping in Faramir's room… Even if he was not there, it was still vulgar in its suggestiveness.

Mithmír could barely contain her excitement as she settled down for a long day of polishing and sharpening. For the first time in all her life she was good enough to be _allowed _to do one of the things she most wanted to do, despite the danger! She was whistling a merry tune - one of the folk-dances she had heard in Ithilien - and took out her daggers. The day looked promising.


	31. Introductions

Sorry the actual story in this chapter is quite small; but there's a decently sized note at the bottom on Mithmír's genealogy. I will try to put another chapter up a.s.a.p.; definitely in the next 24 hours but not sure when (probably tomorrow evening).

Thanks for the review Imaginator! I completely agree!

Please R&R. Thanks! Enjoy!

***

Mithmír was introduced to many people on the field before they marched. Aragorn introduced her to Imrahil, whom she thought very stately; and re-introduced her to Elladan and Elrohir, Elrond's sons. She knew them from Imladris and greeted them warmly. Not only were they friends but also related [_A/N see footnote and I'll explain_]. They would have talked for a long while about Imladris, but they were interrupted by Aragorn.

'There is little or no time for idle chatter,' he said, not unkindly. 'You must meet the others of this group who are unknown to you: Gimli the dwarf firstly.'

'My Lady half-elf,' he said with a bow and kissed her hand. She tried not to laugh as his beard tickled her skin. She felt like she was halfway to Valinor, she was that happy… To be allowed to do what she wanted; to be riding to war regardless of whether she was woman or no was bliss. She silently thanked her father for giving her permission, as she had done over and over for the last two days. She was so happy she could forgive this man before her the fault of being a dwarf. Maybe he would even prove to her the worth of a dwarf later.

'The Dúnedain must be a hardy race indeed, if even their womenfolk come to war alongside the best Elven archers, Dwarvish axe-men and Gondorian warriors!'

'Indeed we are,' Mithmír replied with a smile. 'I shall have to show you what we "womenfolk" are capable of.'

'And I shall get to teach a half-elf the value of a well-aimed axe!' Gimli replied, and his dark eyes glinted with pleasure at the thought of warfare.

'Just before he passes, that Man who rides by on the horse is Eomer, Lord of the Mark after the death of Theoden, his uncle.' Aragorn butted in, pointing to a tall man with brown-gold hair who rode past a metre or three away.

'I see him, and I have heard of him also,' acknowledged Mithmír.

'I thought you would have, elfling,' Aragorn smiled. Mithmír blushed at his public use of her child-name. The Man, however, appeared oblivious to her discomfort. 'Last but most definitely _not _least - in anything but stature - is Peregrine Took of the Shire, my lady.'

The hobbit, blushing to the tips of his slightly pointed ears, bowed low. He wore the livery of Gondor, she noticed with amazement - but of course it had been much shortened. She dropped into a deep curtsy. 'It is I who should bow before you, my Lord Peregrine.'

'Pippin. My name's Pippin, Lady Mithmír. And I don't see why you'd want to bow to _me_. I'm a lowly hobbit of the Shire, and you're a warrior and a half-elf.' He blushed even harder.

'I disagree,' she said, barely containing her amusement. 'You have done many great deeds. The tale of them has passed through the City many times, and I have hearkened to all. It is truly an honour to meet you; and a greater honour to fight beside you.'

'I shall enjoy fighting beside a shield-maiden also,' Pippin replied quickly, smiling like a sunbeam in the dark day. 'Even more if she shall tell me any news of Frodo and Sam…?'

'Of course, brave Lord!' Mithmír replied with a chuckle. 'Anything you want to know of me, I shall tell you, if I am not bound by some other promise not to.'

'My thanks,' replied Pippin jovially.

Yet again it was Aragorn - whom Mithmír had been finding distinctly annoying recently - who broke up their conversation.

'If you don't mind,' he said, 'you two had better mount your horses: we ride at the head of the army, and it is the time to start our march.'

Mithmír did so quickly and easily. Brialvastor was champing at the bit to be gone; he sensed the action that was approaching. She stroked his smooth neck lovingly, and whispered Elvish words into his ear till he calmed. Her own spirits could not be dampened: she, a shield-maiden, rode to war at the head of the army of her people!

The horns of war were blown; and the Army of the West, thousands of swords and helmets glinting in the pale sunlight, moved away from the Tower of Guard to meet their doom head-on before the Black Gates; all for the sake of buying time for two hobbits deep in the Dark Land.

***

A/N: Mithmír is related to Elladan and Elrohir; Elrond's sons. I don't know the exact term - probably 'millionth cousins thirty times removed' or something else as odd (I don't understand any terms more complicated than "cousin" and "uncle" etc.); but this is basically how they are related as best as I can explain it.

Mithmír's great-grandmother on her father's side, Culalqua (which means "red-gold swan", which she was named for her unusual but not unattractive hair colour) was the younger sister of Arador; Aragorn's grandfather. (This is how she has some right to call Aragorn a relation). This meant Culalqua (and so her great-granddaughter Mithmír) was a direct descendant of Elros, first King of Númenor. Elros' brother was Elrond, and Elrond's sons are Elladan and Elrohir.

Reading that through it makes very little sense, but ah well. Find a copy of Elrond's family tree - one that show's Elros' side of the family as well - and it might help make that clearer. Culalqua is a made-up character so don't wonder when you can't find her name ;-). Arador probably won't be in there either but read Appendix A, LOTR, and somewhere it tells you about him.

Another interesting by-product of this is that Mithmír has a **_TINY _**(did I make that clear enough? LOL.) amount of Maia blood in her from her ancestor Melian, wife of Thingol; and she is also descended from one of the greatest Elves, first leader of the Noldor, Finwë. None of these bloods are very strong in her now, however; after many generations.

That was just some interesting (maybe), odd (definitely) pieces of information that only become important later - I will refresh your memory when it does.

By the way: has anyone here noticed the really funny suggestions spell-check gives you for Tolkien's names? Here are some of my favourites (feel free to ignore as they have nothing to do with story):

Noldor = Noodle

Thingol = Tingle

Melian = Melon

No one else will find those funny, but hey, I do. Feel free to suggest any more! Also, if anyone has any corrections to do with Mithmír's possible descent, please post a review and I'll check out. Thanks!

--- Annaicuru


	32. Spirit Of The Flame

Before anyone comments, I know this is pathetically tiny [abashed grin], but I had so much homework tonight… I'll try to put more up tomorrow. Good things are coming! For now just read, review, enjoy… The usual stuff.

***

'Be thee tired yet, Lady?' Asked Gimli with a wry grin when they halted for their first night's rest, at the crossroads by the river Morgulduin, in the land of Ithilien. Mithmír smiled, and chuckled in response:

'Nay, no more than you yourself are, master Dwarf.'

'Now _that _I cannot believe,' retorted Gimli jovially, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. Fears could be forgotten now, in the glow of the flames. 'Mortal women being as hardy as Dwarves? It cannot be.' His laughing voice dared her to fight back, and so she did.

'I believe it is mortal men you think of, good Dwarf,' she replied. 'We women are higher and mightier than our male kin; being half-elves only increases that.' She looked over to Aragorn with a cheeky twinkle in her eye. His mouth, she was pleased to see, was agape; his manly pride hurt. From somewhere in the darkness came an Elven chuckle. Mithmír tried to persuade herself she _was not happy _that Legolas was listening.

'What makes you say such things, elfling?' Aragorn cheerfully teased back.

'We bear children, we care for our incompetent men, we heal their woes, we teach them the old tales, we go to war…' She smiled back innocently. 'And we are much, much braver when it comes to the end. Much wiser too.'

Gimli roared with laughter. 'Well said, maid! Well said indeed! You are not so unlike Aragorn, are you?'

Aragorn slumped back and ignored Gimli's comment but replied to Mithmír. 'Why the wiser? Our womenfolk would have us stay at home and save ourselves, and leave the fighting till it came to our doorsteps.'

'Women with children and husbands feel the need to protect them,' Mithmír agreed. 'But I have no children; I have no husband. I am as free and as untamed as the horse that is wild. I have a warrior-spirit stronger than many men here. Eowyn has such a spirit. Great women of old were so. Why not I?'

There was mild clapping, and the elusive Elven laugh came from the darkness again.

'You are right, Gimli,' agreed Aragorn finally with a laugh. 'She is indeed too much like me. We are both stubborn. And maybe,' he turned to Mithmír while he spoke, 'this lady Mithmír Rochiwen, the grey-stone, the maid of horses, is meant for war as surely as any of us. The Lady Arwen now - she should not fight; it is not in her blood. But Mithmír…' his dark eyes looked deep into hers as if searching to see her soul - 'she has the fire-spirit. Was it not she who called even as the Dúnedain warriors of old: "Lacho calad! Drego morn!" _flame light! Flee night_?'

'I shall toast to that,' agreed Gimli, and drowned his earthenware mug of ale.

'And I too agree,' Legolas said with a small smile; entering the circle of light and sitting beside his Dwarven friend.

'I shall not pass judgement,' Gandalf spoke for the first time in his solemn way, 'but if I were to…' a chuckle came into his voice, 'I would say that yes: she is a fighter.'

Mithmír blushed and ducked her head, embarrassed that so many people praised her so highly. She felt callused fingers around her chin, and they lifted her head gently.

'Do not hide your face, neth maethorwen [_young warrior maid_]. Be proud, as proud as I am of you.' Said Aragorn with a smile.

Mithmír was happier then than she ever had been.


	33. Blood And Pain To Remember

It's long! At last! Thanks for the reviews and its great to have you all back. I am not sure if I am happy with this chapter so any ideas for improvement welcome.

Any Legolas fans out there (I am one too by the way): LEGOLAS CHAPTER! Whether you will like it or not is another matter…

Please read, review, enjoy!

***

On the fourth day the attack came.

A strong fighting-force of orcs and uruk-hai sprang on them from the forest in many places, brandishing cruelly-shaped swords and shooting arrows with barbs designed to stick into flesh and resist attempts to be removed. The entire army was thrown into chaos, or rather would have been were not Aragorn there to rally his people into battle.

'Fight! Fight!' He called in a voice so regal the like of it had not been heard since the downfall of Númenor. 'Fight for your loved ones! Fight for yourself! Fight for the West!'

Mithmír felt a familiar rush of adrenaline enter her system. She turned side-on in the saddle and drew her bow just in time as four orcs rushed at her and Gimli, who dropped like a stone from the back of Legolas' horse. He was up on his feet in a second, but not before all four orcs had been shot down by arrows. He turned to the Elf and half-elf behind him. Both had raised bows.

'Who shot them, aye?' He asked grumpily. 'Who denied me my fun?'

Mithmír and Legolas laughed as one. 'Two each, master Dwarf!' Legolas replied gleefully, shooting another arrow as he spoke, and controlling his horse with his legs alone.

'Legolas was a much better shot than I, however,' added Mithmír. She drew her daggers from their sheaths quickly, one in either hand, and then gave Brialvastor an order - or rather a request. Elven horses are not owned and have no masters. The horse swivelled his ears intelligently, and then with a piercing whinny made off towards where the fighting was thickest; first in a trot and then a canter.

Mithmír laughed as she struck her first blow into the vulnerable neck of an orc. Her eyes glinted with wild delight in fighting; and her body was tall and proud in the saddle. She rode Brialvastor easily, for all his bucking and biting. He too was trained in the arts of war; had been since he was a colt. He knew no fear of metal or flame. While the fighting continued Mithmír felt almost as if she were one with the valiant horse beneath her. They moved as one being; such as rider and steed often seem to be able to guess their partner's actions after years of companionship. Mithmír wished Faramir could be here for this. And her father. She wondered, for the first time in many days, where her mother was now.

It seemed to her that the fighting was over too quickly. Within minutes (or nearly an hour as it really was) she was left with only orc bodies about her, and a few weary swordsmen. She was panting hard from exertion, and even Brialvastor had lost his usual frisk. His chest heaved underneath her. She sheathed her bloody weapons and leaned forward so she was lying over his neck, smothering her face in his mane and his neck beneath with kisses.

'Oh, you wonderful horse,' she told him in Sindarin. 'Oh, you pretty thing. How wonderful you are! White shall _always _come second-place to brown for me. No white horse is as clever and brave as you, Brialvastor the Strong!'

The stallion let out a huff and his nostrils flared. Mithmír laughed and sat up. She felt weariness tug for the first time at her body; even though it must have been present much longer. 'Go back to the others, Brialvastor,' she murmured softly. 'Take me back to them.'

The horse silently obeyed; but not directly. With the uncanny sense of his kind he went off towards one of his rider's wounded comrades. Mithmír was too tired to notice.

Legolas stood motionless and surveyed his arm. In the way of Elves he had worn no heavy armour, and little on his arms; and this was responsible for the arrow shaft sticking out from his flesh. It was halfway between his wrist and elbow. Luckily it was not deeply in: it had entered his arm at a diagonal, and only half and inch had entered his skin. It was barely more than a scratch compared to most wounds taken and caused in battle; and would not even stop him from fighting in the next skirmish - when the shaft had been removed. He could not do it himself for fear of doing it unskilfully due to the fact he could not twist his arm around enough to see it. Despite himself he winced with pain. He wondered where Gimli had got to - where was his good friend when he needed him? He had followed the orcs a decent way into the shade of the trees and it would take a long walk to get back to Aragorn and the others.

He had begun to walk as fast as he could towards them when he heard hoof-beats at a steady trot from his left. He looked there in hope - no orcs rode horses, for none would bear them. Here, surely, came someone who could heal his wounds. His aspect brightened considerably, and he called out in Common: 'who comes to help a wounded Elf?'

Mithmír heard this and sat bolt upright in the saddle, her eyes wide. Her mind was torn in two: whether to help an injured companion, regardless of how silly and young he made her feel, or to ride past and pretend - ridiculously - not to have heard? There was no choice, in the end, for Legolas caught sight of her through the trees at that moment.

He stiffened instantly. He would rather bear the pain of the barb than be healed by this lady. The emotions she aroused in him were unwelcome and unexpected. He felt _jealousy_, a rare emotion among Elves, for the way she obviously was linked to Faramir. He was disgusted at himself for caring so. He tried to quell the faster beating of his heart as she got nearer. He felt bitterness well up in him; bitterness from jealousy, from self-disgust, and from the feelings he could not hope to have returned. His expressive water-like eyes froze over so no emotion was visible by the time Mithmír had dismounted and was by his side.

Despite herself she let out a slight hiss of shock. She grasped his arm, forcing him to stop walking and turn to her. She gently touched and examined the bruised area where the tip of the arrow, the barb, entered his skin. 'It's not too bad,' she said without looking up. 'I should withdraw the barb and bind the wound for you here…'

'No!' He replied quickly. Her head shot up and her dark eyes met with his.

'Why?' She asked suspiciously. 'I do have as much training in healing as any other warrior, Legolas Greenleaf, if not more.'

Legolas wondered if she knew how attractive she looked like that, her eyes wide with worry, her jaw set firmly, strands of dark hair loose from their tie and framing her face. She was not pretty in the way of Elven maids, however; but in a way unique to her: her attractiveness was born of her free will, her charisma, her bold and happy spirit. The bitterness erupted. 'Why don't you return to Gondor and tend to Faramir's wounds instead?' He said, his voice harsher than an Elf's should be capable of. Mithmír was silent with shock. He horrified himself by continuing: 'is that not a lady's duty, to tend to her bed-mate?'

Mithmír was shocked that anyone could so have misread her relationship with Faramir. The fuse of anger was lit inside her, however, and she retorted: 'Faramir is no lover of mine, Elf! He is as a _brother _to me, and a brother dearer to me than you could ever be! I have never known Elves could be so rude and unjust, insulting and judgmental… If they are all as you, Legolas Thranduil's son, I would far prefer to die the death of Men than live all eternity among their hurtful words!' Her voice was raised into a shout; in her blind fury she did not see the shadow of horror pass over Legolas' face, transforming his expression to one of sorrow. 'I am a _warrior_, Legolas! Do not ask me to stay at home and tend to the house until you yourself shall do so!' Her eyes glared at him with the wrath of her soul for another moment, and then she was mounting Brialvastor and heading away.

'Mithmír…' Legolas called futilely after her. 'Mithmír, I knew not, forgive me, forgive my words…' He felt a silver tear run its track down his smooth cheek. He was horrified at his loss of control, the uncharacteristic _anger _he had shown. He believed the things Mithmír rightly accused him of being were only faults in himself, not the Elven kind (though rather they were faults that neither bore). If he could only manage to tell her what emotions had stung him to uttering those foul things… He had all but ruined his chances with the fierce shield-maiden; things could never be righted unless he swallowed his pride and begged her pardon… He was old enough to cope with that deed, he knew, in all but one respect: he could not bear to be rejected again, and he knew rejection was all his previous behaviour had merited. His tears became tears for the hopelessness of his situation. He wanted to tell her so, wanted to tell her how he felt, wanted them to at least be _friends_… But what if she refused him? What if the same hatred arose in her eyes again?

He cried out once in fierce emotion; and with no thought for the consequences dragged the barb from his arm, releasing a flow of warm blood along his white skin. He made no attempt to stem the bleeding, but walked on and on towards the others until the blood was hard and dry, caked onto his flesh. He felt he deserved the pain. It could be no more than he had put her through. And as long as it lingered he would remember the things he wanted to tell her…

***

As I said comments are greatly appreciated so please review.

Next chapter will be up by tomorrow night (GMT) 

Annaicuru


	34. Arguments

Please comment and thanks for the reviews!

***

Mithmír had been expecting to be asked to turn back with the few fighters of Rohan who returned to their homes to guard them. She had set her jaw determinedly as Aragorn gave the choice to the men; and waited to be approached. To her intense surprise and everlasting joy and gratitude, Aragorn merely looked at her questioningly and, when she shook her head firmly, left it at that.

Mithmír could not know his thoughts then, which was lucky: Aragorn's pity was almost boundless. The girl could not be told, by her father's orders, but the brave Dúnedain lay dying in Minas Tirith. The wound from the sword, though clean, had quickly become infected and no work of the healers could save him. Aragorn had offered, but the stout man had refused firmly and bade him to save his powers for more important causes. Aragorn grieved to think how hurt the girl he loved like a daughter would be to find that her father had sent her away so that she was not forced to be present at his passing…

__

'You will not tell her, will you?' The dying man's eyes were solemn and pleading. Aragorn noticed that they were even darker than his only child's.

'Nay, friend. I swore I should not and by that promise I stand, until the end and after.' He was almost choking on the tears. Mithmír's father, Dîntir, was one of his closest friends.

The white face smiled a little, but the look was weary of the world. 'You shall have to deal with my daughter's anger…' He warned.

'I shall manage,' Aragorn laughed in reply, but the sound was hollow with grief.

'Tell her I love her,' Dîntir begged in a forced whisper, desperation in his gaze that though once so strong was getting ever weaker.

'She knows it already, but I shall.'

'Tell her I did this for her own good…'

'It is as good as done.' He felt a great void open up in himself. He swallowed repeatedly, and hugged his friend tightly.

The man's voice was nearly only a breath now. 'And tell my Melkalwen my love for her is deathless… And,' a great pain came into his voice, 'say that if she wishes she may pass beyond the sea with the Elves.'

'That is a noble thing you offer her, Dîntir,' praised Aragorn softly. He wondered inwardly if he would do the same for Arwen: allow her to go with the last of her people and deny himself the chance of meeting her outside the spheres of the world.

'My beautiful Elf deserves nothing less…' Dîntir replied, and then in the way of the ill was suddenly asleep, a shadow gone from his face.

'Rest easy, bravest of the brave,' said Aragorn in little more than a murmur and then was gone out of the room quickly, bending his head to hide his eyes that glinted with tears. He would not meet his friend again.

Oblivious to her father's fate, Mithmír stood before the Morannon. She had come back to the place she left so long ago - or so it seemed - and she hated it even more. She could see the very spot where the hobbits had stood with Gollum while they debated whether to enter by that way or not. If she half-closed her eyes she could almost see them there, little figures barely as tall as children, wrapped close about in cloaks of Lothlorien grey. She shivered, and wondered where they could be.

She became aware of the conversation about her when it reached near-shouting level. She was interested to see the two combatants were Legolas and Aragorn; and they appeared to be mentioning her name in a lot more than casual conversation. She passed Gimli - who was sitting on the scorched ground and regaining his breath - with the silence of a feline; and went forward till she was but a few paces from the Man and Elf. In their apparent anger they didn't see her. The cause of the "discussion" became apparent soon enough.

'She cannot come to the Gates with us as a fellow herald,' Aragorn said with gritted teeth as if the phrase had been repeated many times. 'She is not one of the Fellowship.'

'Neither are Imrahil, Elladan and Elrohir,' Legolas replied; his musical voice tinged with annoyance.

'I promised her father I should protect her.'

'She deserves to see! She went with Frodo and Sam equally as far as any of us!' Legolas' blue eyes flamed with icy tongues of fire.

'She cannot be risked.'

'Would you deny her it on the grounds of her sex?' The Elf asked incredulously. Elves are not as sexist as Men, though granted most of their womenfolk have little taste for fighting.

Aragorn ignored it, but his body language became more arrogant. 'I _knew _you liked her,' he said with a mischievous glint entering his eye. 'You may have denied it but I say you still look at her…' He smiled a little. 'Am I right? You're very silent all of a sudden.'

Legolas blushed almost imperceptably. 'What business is it of yours?'

'Nothing, nothing,' said Aragorn carefully and took a step forward. 'Just that I'm… interested,' he drawled. Mithmír scowled at him evilly. She felt her heart beat quicken in her chest as Legolas opened his mouth to reply. She was surprised to find herself hoping that Aragorn's accusations were true…

Legolas raised his head high and defiant and took a bold breath. He had never _felt _so nervous… Admitting to Aragorn, a close friend, should not be so hard. He finally spoke:

'All I want,' he said somewhat slowly, 'is for -'

It was at that second that Aragorn spotted Mithmír. 'Mithmír Rochiwen!' He cried heartily, and reached out to grab her hand and so stop her running away. Legolas' shade of red deepened considerably. 'Legolas here says you should come with us as a Herald of the West… What say you?'

'I should be honoured,' Mithmír managed, though her throat was dry. Legolas' eyes looked anywhere but her. Inexplicably this saddened her.

'It is settled then, Legolas,' said Aragorn, clapping Mithmír on the back and at the same time nodding at the Elf in a way which annoyed him deeply. 'I have to go tell Gimli… why don't you two keep each other company? Doubtless the Elf and half-elf have some things in common to speak of.'

Mithmír was about to reply that no, thank you, she'd find Gimli; when Legolas' pure voice rang out.

'As you say, Aragorn King. I indeed have questions to ask this lady…' And his gentle, expressive eyes finally met hers. He felt like his heart was in his throat, and it was beating like a drum. He willed himself to be brave. Aragorn bowed and walked away; smiling a little in a self-satisfied way.

'Would you care to take a walk with me, Lady?' Asked Legolas politely.

'Of course,' replied Mithmír somewhat shakily, and so together they set of on a brisk trip around the camp.

***

TO BE CONTINUED

Sorry to cut it off there. Don't worry the next chapter _will be good_. Revelations are coming, and things will be admitted… Apologies will be made (though you'll have to read the chapter to find out if they're accepted!)

Thanks for reading and please review!


	35. A Little Walk

This is it: Mithmír and Legolas' little walk! But what will happen? Read and find out! Thanks for the reviews they are greatly appreciated *hint hint nudge nudge* Next chapter should also be up tonight - hopefully.

***

The ground beneath Mithmír's feet was cracked and rocky, offering many places to trip or stumble. She felt uncomfortably aware of her status as a mortal because of this: the male Elf beside her was as nimble as a mountain-goat over the rough terrain. His arm was about hers. She couldn't decide if he was merely holding her close for the sake of politeness, or to stop her falling, or maybe something else altogether…

They were nearly of a quarter of the way around the camp, and away from any men who were not deeply asleep, when Legolas first spoke somewhat hesitantly. 'You are happy to be involved in this war then, Lady?' His tone was courteous in the extreme. It was the only way that he felt he could keep his voice under control. He had been brought up as the son of a King: he had been trained in manners for all his centuries of age. He could appear unconcerned if he merely retreated into the safety of politeness.

'Yes, Prince Legolas,' she replied with equally admirable self-control. 'I would never have expected to have been allowed to ride to war with the men.' She smiled and risked a little sideways glance at him. To her surprise he was staring at her intently. She blushed and turned her head forward again, concentrating wholly on their feet: his in delicate Elven shoes, hers in boots that had seen many places.

Legolas marvelled at they way the sun made her hair gleam like autumn leaves after rainfall. He could see her strong jaw outlined strikingly, her slightly rounded nose. He watched, fascinated, as her eyelashes touched her cheek briefly every time she blinked. He finally tore himself away from the sight and asked, 'did it offend you that I asked for you to stand with us as a Herald?'

She looked at him questioningly again, but could not keep his intense gaze for long. 'No, I am grateful,' she said truthfully. 'It was kind of you.' She realised her arm was beginning to ache; but to take it from his would be rude. She noticed his arm was unbound and the wound which had been caused by unskilful removal of the arrow was clearly visible. 'Why won't you have it cleaned and wrapped?' She asked boldly.

He looked down at his arm - which still pained him, and even more so around her - and then to her. This time she did not avert her eyes, but held his gaze strongly. _Now or never, _he thought. He wished he could correct Men's tales of Elves: they felt embarrassment and nerves just as acutely.

'_A maid as fair as Luthien herself offered to bind it for me,_' he said softly in Sindarin. '_But I merely insulted her with childish and unfounded accusations; behaving as does not befit my rank, nature or feelings._' His eyes searched hers, ready to stop at the slightest flicker of dislike in her gaze. Mithmír's deep brown pools, however, had become unfathomable deep and he could not read her emotion. He knew he had to take the risk, however, and it may be his last chance… '_I hurt her and shunned her as I had no right. I could not bring myself to admit my feelings, for I was sure she should reject me._' He paused for a second and his smooth hand encircled hers lightly. _'I deserve nothing but rejection from this fairest of ladies. This I know. But I think that… I think that I love her; and I cannot bear to live without knowing if this emotion is mutual, or if I love in vain…_'

Mithmír noticed the great pain in his eyes. She was suddenly aware that he had laid his heart bare, and was now waiting for judgement to be passed on it. She surveyed his face; and knew that his noble features held no hint of trickery or mockery. She was more glad than she had ever thought she could be, for she knew she would not reject him again. She found her voice, and it was strong and true as it spoke the Sindarin easily: '_rejection is what you deserve, Elf-prince, but it is not what your Lady wants to bestow upon you._' She could not yet bring herself to say those fateful words that are "I love you", though they were what her heart was calling. '_She offers again to heal you, Lord._'

Legolas smiled and a great light entered his eyes even as joy warmed his heart. '_It is all I ask,_' he said in beautiful Elvish. In the barren wastelands before Mordor, with the Nazgûl wheeling up above, it sounded like the most beautiful birdsong, or waves upon a beach. '_I shall not be as hasty as I was the last time, Lady. I shall not rush and so regret. The greatest trees which stand the longest take the most amount of time to grow; and so it is with other things also._'

Mithmír ducked her head to hide her smile. 'We had better get back then, so I can bind your wound before we ride out…' She said haltingly in Common. 'Who drew out the barb so badly?'

'None other than myself,' replied Legolas with an embarrassed grin. 'I felt such guilt for the pain I caused you, that I desired to mirror it within myself…'

'You silly Elven prince!' Mithmír laughed. 'All that pain for me?' She could not help to be touched.

'I deserved yet more,' Legolas replied in barely more than a breath.

'We had better be going, as I said,' Mithmír replied and made to go.

'Wait,' Legolas half-begged. Mithmír turned around, and before she could react the Elf had drawn her into a close embrace. His slender arms were wound about her back and shoulders, holding her close to him delicately while gentle fingers trace intricate patterns through the fabric of her tunic. She relaxed her head onto his shoulder, angling it so she could inhale the sweet, wholesome woodland smell of his beautiful hair. Legolas' face was smiling prettily, his eyes closed in bliss, his lips tickling the incredibly sensitive tip of her ear as he whispered in Sindarin: '_I do not want to tame the wild shield-maiden of the North, for that should break her spirit which is a sin unmeasurable: but, if it pleases her, I would follow her anywhere to keep her by my side._' Mithmír felt a shiver pass through her body. When he finally let her go she felt the cold hit her like a blow. She missed his proximity. She glanced furtively back at the camp, where Aragorn, Gimli, Pippin and the other leading figures of the army were assembled. At least Aragorn and Pippin were turned their way, if not more…

'They'll all have seen,' she whispered; not sure if she should be horrified or pleased.

'I could not care less, Mithmír Silfëa, shining spirit,' he replied happily; and so his lifelong nickname for her was born.

***

YAY! At last! Please review.

Annaicuru


	36. Healing The Elf

I know this is short, but its been put up quick you have to admit! Hope you enjoy it and please review, all comments welcomed and appreciated.

***

Mithmír did not look at the men, dwarf and hobbit as she passed; though many sets of eyes were upon her. She sat down with Legolas a way away, and drew from a nearby pack healing-salve, a waterskin and a roll of linen. 'Roll up your sleeve… Please,' she said with a little grin. The Elf did so slowly, but he couldn't hide the wince as the fabric caught on the forming scab.

'I can't promise that this won't hurt,' warned Mithmír shakily as she tore a piece from the linen and wet it.

'As long as it's you who is healing me,' Legolas smiled bravely. Nevertheless he moaned a little as the swab rubbed across his torn skin. Mithmír tried to be as gentle as she could, and whether it worked or not there were no more cries, and soon the blood was cleared away. Legolas audibly sighed with relief at precisely the same time Mithmír hissed almost accusingly.

'That's a terrible wound, Legolas… Look at all the unnecessary flesh that was torn out… And it's jagged, too. You really need a healer to stitch it up.'

'A healer will not be necessary,' Legolas replied quickly, settling down into a more comfortable position with his back against a travelling-pack. 'Elven wounds heal quicker than those of Men. This may not even scar.'

'If you are lucky,' Mithmír replied doubtfully. 'Well, there's nothing to be done, I suppose. Sit still - don't wriggle so much.' She smiled indulgently as the Elf shifted about a final time and settled into yet another new position. He laid his arm across his knees so the wound was open to her. She smiled as she started to lather on the salve. So much had happened in so little time! And yet it felt _right_, right to be doing this, right to have said those things… She smiled wide, and noticed that Legolas smiled also.

When she was nearly finished covering the wound, Legolas cried out in pain.

'What is it?' She asked frantically, rocking back onto her heels, her eyes wide with worry.

'There is a pain in my shoulder,' he said slowly, wincing. 'I had not noticed it till now, but it hurts as I lean back onto the pack behind me…'

'Let me bind your arm, and then I shall see to that wound as well,' Mithmír said and quickly set to work at tying the linen firmly about his smooth, warm arm. Had her head been raised, she would have seen the Elf's tiny mischievous grin. As it was, she looked up long after it had been wiped away. 'Turn around, and be careful not to loosen that bandage,' she ordered. Legolas did so slowly, gasping a little as his shoulder rubbed against the bag.

'There is no blood on your clothes,' she noted, and an edge of suspicion grew in her voice. She began to guess a little of the cheeky Elf's plan. 'Maybe it is a muscle-cramp…?' She did nothing to stop it, either.

'I think so,' Legolas replied in an innocent voice, though his smile betrayed him. 'Can you do anything for it, Lady?'

'Maybe…' Mithmír replied with laughter in her voice. She did not feel embarrassed as she lifted up the back of the Elf's tunic: any watchers would see her as a healer, nothing more. 'Where is it?' She asked calmly, her fingers flitting over his bare skin and making him shiver.

'There,' moaned Legolas. He may not have been wounded as such, but he was tense, and a good massage would not go amiss…

Mithmír nodded, smiling a little. The Elf's blatant trickery amused her. She began to knead at his tense muscles with skilled hands: she had been taught the art of relieving tension while in Minas Tirith, where many of the wounded needed such help and a sympathetic ear to listen to their tales. His skin was soft and supple under her hands, and the moans she extracted from her by doing this intrigued her. She had never felt such power over any one before… When she was finished, her fingers aching, she pulled back down his tunic and got up to her feet shakily.

'Does that make you feel better, Elf?'

'More than you can ever know,' he said with a playful grin, standing up and stretching like a cat.

'I can guess,' she replied with a small smirk. 'Come, then, we go to talk with the other Heralds. Let us hope that they gleaned no more than friendship from what they have seen…'

'You mean… there _is _more?' Asked Legolas breathlessly. He hadn't dared hope, even after the "healing"…

'I never said _that_, now, did I?' She grinned back and winked equally playfully, before walking to meet the other Heralds in high spirits. She had gained a close friend - and maybe something more as well…

***

Haha, cheeky little Elf and elfling! Pleas review.


	37. The Mouth Of Sauron

Thanks for the reviews!  Sorry this chapter's a little short; but in the next one we finally get to _fight_…  Yay!  Hope you're enjoying it and please review.

I'll also be putting up the beginning of a new fanfic soon – another LOTR one.  I'll tell you more when it's up, and don't worry I won't forget about Mithmír!

***

When she heard the news of the hobbits, she visibly sagged in the saddle.  Only Legolas stopped her from crying out: his blue eyes met hers and locked onto them in a grip that was as tight as any made by hands and arms.  She swallowed her scream, but the tears in her eyes could not be removed.  She gulped once, nodded to Legolas for thanks, and then turned back to the Mouth of Sauron and his wicked leer.  Her throat was dry.  She gripped Brialvastor's smooth sides more tightly with her thighs, seeking to draw comfort from the familiar, faithful being.  He whinnied a little; and she respected him greatly for his courage.  Many other horses should have long ago fled from the skeleton-like beast before them.

The Elf hated to see such pain and hopelessness in her eyes.  He wanted to tell her that she should never be alone and that she need never fear again.  He now knew with a heavy heart why men wanted to keep their wives at home: they wished not to lose what was most precious to them of all.  With the revelations about his feelings for her came not only joy but woe and fear also, and in abundance.  He reminded himself that he had promised not to tame her; and he would lock her in no cage.  Nevertheless his heart ached for her.

Mithmír's soul was in torment.  Had she known it, her visions of the fate of Frodo and Sam were not very different from the tortures Faramir had (wrongly) envisioned her of receiving.  She could almost hear their screams reverberating around her skull…  She blinked again and again to stop herself breaking down; but she couldn't hide the way her hands shook as they grasped Brialvastor's reins.

She was unaware as the others moved away somberly.  It was Legolas who called softly to her, and his voice which broke her seeming trance.  She kicked Brialvastor forward slowly, and Legolas waited till she was beside him before moving away with her.  'Do not blame yourself,' he said softly after a while.

She looked at him with blank eyes.  'How can I not?'  She asked plainly.

'Blame needs not be laid,' he said in vain.  'For if this has truly come to pass, if the Ring has been taken by Sauron…'  He shivered, and his eyes seemed to look for a second not at hers but at some other place far from Middle Earth.  'Then the eternal darkness comes anyway; and no one shall any longer care whose fault it was.  Then I shall indeed wish to be across the Sundering Sea in Valinor…'  And a wistful look came into his eyes.

'Lucky are the Eldar who can escape on white ships to such places,' commented Mithmír lifelessly.

'You count yourself not with them, then?'  Asked Legolas in surprise.

'I do not know,' she said honestly, her eyes devoid of any spark of enthusiasm or any trace of happiness.

Legolas drew his horse close to hers, and laid a gentle, consoling hand on hers.  'I hate to see you this unhappy, Lady.'

Mithmír turned on him, and finally there was emotion in her eyes, but it was bitter and unpleasant with anger.  'How dare you try to console me, Legolas?  Think you not of what the hobbits are being put through _at this very moment _in the dark land?'  She sobbed once, and a single tear escaped her eye and moved down her cheek.  'Can you not feel their pain and hear their screams?'  Another tear followed its predecessor.  'If you were I, if you had… deserted them before their greatest obstacle, would you not wish that you were enduring that rather than them?'  She could not hide her tears now, and they flowed down her face in a torrent of sorrow.

'Do not cry, _nín meleth_ [my love],' begged Legolas.  He moved his hand up to tuck her hair behind her ears.  'It makes my heart weep also.'  His hand lingered for a little around her face, and deft fingers wiped away her tears.  She looked up at him with reddened eyes.  Legolas noted that even this couldn't make her appear less beautiful in his eyes.

'_Fight all the harder for them, Lady_,' he continued in a strong voice, dropping into Sindarin completely.  '_Fight for revenge_.'

She smiled weakly at him.  'I believe you are right, Legolas,' she replied somewhat shakily.  'Maybe _Celebdîn _can help me there…'

'_Celebdîn_?'

'My sword, silent silver,' explained Mithmír with a stronger grin.  Legolas realized he'd found a way to change the subject.  The woman took her hands from Brialvastor's reins and drew the sword from its sheath.  The blade glinted boldly in the light.  Legolas leaned over it in wonder.

Legolas read out the Tengwar inscription in Sindarin: 'Celebdîn: dínen hathol, síladínen, dínen tirith, dínen estel, dínen celeb…'

Mithmír looked at him with a wide grin, and translated, 'Celebdîn: silent sword, silent shining, silent guard, silent hope, silent silver.'

'It is a wondrous weapon indeed,' he commented.  'Where did you get it?'

'From my father the Dúnedain, but it was made by the Elven smiths of Imladris and Lothlorien.'  She grimaced.  'May it also be called _dínen guruth_, silent death, for the battle today!'

'Glad to see that you're feeling better, Lady,' smiled Legolas mildly.  'Your warrior spirit has returned thricefold, I see.'

'You shall fight beside me, fearless, Legolas Greenleaf?  Can you match the battle-skill of the wild shield-maiden?'

He chuckled, and the sound oddly complimented the ring of metal as she sheathed her sword.  'I shall try,' he replied.

***

Off to war before Mordor soon!


	38. Two Fall

Thanks again for all the reviews they are very much appreciated.  I agree with the comment that the beginning of the last chapter was kind of unclear: I suppose I was assuming a bit much that everyone had read the book and remembered the plot reasonably well.  Next time something like that comes up I'll try to avoid making the same mistake.

Glad to hear you're enjoying it!  I'm considering writing a few short stories about Mithmír's past and putting them up on fanfiction.net; pretty much purely as a supplement to this.  Any feedback on this is welcome: if you're not interested I will just keep them to myself.

Please enjoy and review!

***

Mithmír stood beside the Elves for the final stand of the West against Mordor and its fell power.  Legolas was on her left, with Elladan and Elrohir to her right, Elladan closest.  They had all drawn their bows; and they stood with their aim high and their arms did not shake.  Arrow-tips glinted in the red sunlight.  Mithmír's face was stony and composed like those of the immortals about her.  None of them wore any helmets, and their hair rippled freely in the wind: Elladan and Elrohir's twin shade of deepest brown, Mithmír's lighter hazel, and finally Legolas' ever-bright blond.  Mithmír's hair had been given two small braids at the front by Legolas, for as he pointed out, if she were a Sindarin Elf she would be considered an adult and allowed to wear them.  The ranks of Men wondered openly at their beautiful, powerful appearance.  Mithmír found it odd to hear them talk of _her _with such awe: after all, she saw herself as one of them – or had.  Now she was not so sure; for after being with the Elves and seeing them not as a guest does but as friends for a long while, she felt close kinship to them.

They watched the battalions of orcs, uruk-hai and trolls emerge from the open gates of Mordor.  The sight was terrible to behold; and coupled with the fierce cries of the Nazgûl as they swooped above, it was enough to make brave souls quail and steadfast warriors wish to flee.  Mithmír desperately held onto her calm composure, not panicking and loosing her arrow too early, waiting for Aragorn's command.  Just when she thought her heart would break with terror, and she should loose all pretence of bravery, the intensely beautiful and sorrowful (for the beauty of Elves is magnified by sorrow, not marred by it) voice of Elrohir broke the still air:

'_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

_silivren penna míriel_

_o menel aglar elenath!_

_Na-chaered palan-díriel_

_o galadhremmin ennorath,_

_Fanuilos le linnathon_

_nef aear, sí nef aearon!_'

Then he began the whole of that long hymn to Elbereth the Everwhite, and the other Elves (and Mithmír) soon joined in.  The song was bold and defiant on that final battlefield; and it lifted the hearts of all who were near enough to hear it.  Aragorn also sang, to Mithmír's surprise and delight, and also Gandalf in his deep, age-old voice.  Even the Prince Imrahil, who she had not thought to speak the fair tongue, sent his strong voice to join the rest.  By the time it was over, the host of the Enemy was nigh close enough to attack, and a final call went up from Elladan: 'a Elbereth Gilthoniel, an canle!  Sílalín lim ammen!'  _O Elbereth Gilthoniel, I call you!  Shine your light on us!_

Mithmír felt her heart rise even further at the call.  She joined her own voice to it, in the cry of the Dúnedain: 'Lacho calad!  Drego morn!'  And Aragorn and the other Dúnedain repeated it after her with growing force, until they were shouting themselves hoarse and adrenaline pumped through them.  Suddenly there was silence, and then the cry of the King rose high above all else:

'Fire!'

The assembled archers of the army loosed their first flight of arrows in perfect time; just as the approaching orcs broke into a crude but terribly fast run.  Many fell, but many more took their places.  So it continued for many minutes; the Elven archers being the most skilled, followed by Mithmír, and then the knights of Dol Amroth, and finally the Men of Gondor.  The black tide reached them all too soon, and the first obstacle it reached was that of the Dúnedain, the knights of Dol Amroth, the few Elves, and the King; who stood before the main host, which seemed pitiful before the huge army of Mordor.  Mithmír drew _Celebdîn_ as Legolas took out his daggers, and the Elven twins their wondrously crafted swords; Elladan's _Gorellen_ [dread star] and Elrohir's _Kirdae _[shadow cleaver].  The silver of the weapons gleamed.  It struck Mithmír, in the second before the onslaught hit her, that this is what it must have been like at the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.  She saw the rows and rows of humans, and the Elves about her, dressed in their light but firm armor which was tinted golden.  She wondered at the sense of fellowship that grew from desperation…

And then she became purely a warrior, at one with her blade.  She greatly missed Brialvastor, but she had sent him away from the battle: he was too precious to be lost, and the odds were too heavily stacked here.  Instead she focused all her body and soul on the swift, deadly movements of _Celebdîn_, the way the hilt fitted firmly into her hand.  She used her gauntlets often as crude shields, blocking blows of fell daggers with one or other side and then quickly shoving forward in a stabbing motion to kill her opponent.

She was dimly aware of Legolas to her left; she could see him spinning and twisting, dodging and slashing, his long hair whirling about his head.  She smiled a little.  He was so beautiful when he was fighting; so beautiful and so deadly…  She kicked a dagger from the hand of an approaching uruk-hai, and hewed off its ugly, misshapen head with her two-handed sword.  She was caught unawares as a staff of wood or iron was swung at her shins.  It hit her leg-guards alone, but was hard enough to swipe her legs from under her and she dropped to her knees.

'Are you well, Lady?'  Came Legolas' anxious voice.  In answer Mithmír ran the beast responsible through on her sword.  For a second the Elf's face was clear to her.  She smiled grimly.

'I can take care of myself, Prince.'

'Don't I know it,' Legolas muttered in reply.

Meanwhile Mithmír stood up quickly, and managed – with some difficulty – to draw the sword from the corpse of the uruk-hai.  Some wonderful power granted her respite from the battle – for a moment there was a break in the flow of dark things heading to her – and she used the chance to sheath _Celebdîn_ and draw her daggers.  The large sword was becoming just too tiring for even her, a seasoned warrior at using things of such weight, to stand for long.  She caught a glimpse of Elladan, who was doing well by the pile of orcs at his feet, before charging with a cry of rage at her next – ill-fated – opponent.

She heard the cry from her left too late.  She saw her beloved Elf fall; though; she saw the dark things swarm over him.  The bright golden-white of his hair was hidden by the shadows of the orcs about him.  She cried out,

'Nín meleth!'  _My love!  _And began to make for him as fast as she could…

Legolas felt the searing pain enter his thigh, and while he doubled over in agony a heavy blow with a blunt object hit his head forcefully.  He cried out, reached feebly and futilely for his half-elf who was too far away to come to his aid, and then toppled to the ground.  His eyes blacked out with pain as he felt more blows rain down on him, though few were not stopped by his armor.  He drew his arms up over his head in a useless defense, and through the pain he realized that he cried.  It was not for life lost; for all Elves come to battle completely aware that they may die, and they accept the fact calmly.  Rather he cried for his grey-stone, his Mithmír, whom he should never see again…  The salt water mingled with the blood on his lips; and all the while he mouthed silently: '_Im meleth le, Mithmír, im meleth le…_'  I love you, Mithmír, I love you…

***

~ sob sob ~ I have depressed myself!  I'll put more up soon.  Please review!


	39. The Greatest Gift

Haha, so _that _produced a reaction or three!  Don't worry we haven't lost Legolas yet J.  Elves take a fair bit of killing before they truly die.  Especially incredibly good-looking Elves.

I will try to put up some stories on Mithmír's past but only one or maybe two will have romance in it.  Sorry Sophitia!  Or I could make that definitely two if I included how her parents met, but you might not find that so interesting with different characters.  Tell me if you're still interested.  Mithmír just wasn't very interested in guys (or girls) before Legolas came along…

Please read, enjoy and review!

NOTE: Legolas' song is taken from the RTOK, from the chapter named _The Field Of Cormallen_.  It's not mine, I'm just borrowing it.

And this chapter is _huge_.  Sorry.  But it's good.  I hope.

***

Mithmír soon reached the side of her beloved Elf.  The orcs around him she killed without mercy, and many soon were lying on the earth, bleeding to slow and painful deaths.  She called hoarsely: 'help!  Help us, please…'  But her voice was all but lost in the roar of battle.  Only a single knight of Dol Amroth heard; but he understood instantly.  He stood before them and guarded them while Mithmír tended to her love.

Mithmír sank to her knees and cradled the Elf's head in her arms.  It had taken incredibly little damage for all the fact that it had not been protected by a helm.  Nevertheless his hair was tinged a murky red all over; and there was blood in his mouth.  His eyes flickered open once or twice, but he was too weak – or maybe too far gone – to keep them open.

'A nín meleth, nín mell,' whispered Mithmír, choking on her tears.  _Oh my love, my dearest_.

Legolas heard her voice as if from far away.  He tried to move his hand, but it would not grasp hers as he told it too.  Mithmír noticed its slight twitch, however, and brought it up to her lips.  She kissed it repeatedly, tenderly, mingling her tears and his blood.   After awhile she remembered her need for haste to save him, and so she put his hand in her lap also, and checked his lithe form for wounds.

She found only two that were anything above cuts: a vicous slash to his thigh, which would need skilled healing – her mind fled to Aragorn – and a stabbing-wound near his shoulder which was thankfully not deep.  She sighed mentally.  As long as he did not lose too much blood, his wounds were not fatal.  What must be causing this lethargy, this lack of movement and signs of life, was a hard blow to the head.  With fingers as delicate as a light breeze she searched through his hair, and soon found the place where he had been half knocked out.  It was not a bad wound, and she soon deftly ascertained his skull had not been damaged.

'You'll be alright, my love,' she said in Common softly.  'You shall be healed.'

He whimpered a little as if in great pain, and writhed once or twice in her arms.

'Hush,' she said, and her voice was softer and more full of love and caring than it had ever been.  'Hush.'  She leaned over and kissed him softly, ignoring the coppery tang of his blood on her lips.  Later on, Legolas would never be able to decide if that kiss had been dream or reality.  Mithmír pulled away suddenly when the cry rose up from the weary ranks of the army:

'The Eagles!  The Eagles are coming!'

Her eyes lit up with hope refreshed, and she spun her head back eagerly to Legolas.  'Do you hear that, Legolas?  Do you hear it?  The _Eagles _are here, here to save us!  And see, the Black Riders swoop away in retreat!'  Her voice rose in joy as she looked about for news.  'The soldiers of the enemy are halting, Legolas!  The power of the Dark Lord quavers, and mayhap later it shall fail completely!'  Her thoughts strayed to Frodo and Sam, and she suddenly remembered Legolas' words of a few hours before: _for if this has truly come to pass…  _What if it had not?  Sauron was adept at lying, that was well known.  What if the hobbits had escaped?  What then?  Her heart soared.

She waited for but a little while longer.  She stroked Legolas' smooth cheek in soft caresses, and in minutes he was in a calm sleep of healing.  The worried lines on his face melted away till he looked completely at peace.  It was for this reason that he missed the great cry: 'Mordor has fallen!  The Ring is destroyed!  The hobbits have succeeded in their Quest!'

Some great states of happiness cannot be expressed in the words of any mortal lore-keeper, and such was the emotion of this jubilant hour.

***

_~ Many days later in Ithilien, on the eve after the hobbits Sam and Frodo wake ~_

Mithmír knelt and embraced the hobbits one after the other, Frodo first and Sam second.  She felt tears wet her face, and she was surprised to not be ashamed.  Sometimes, she realized, tears were not signs of weakness.  The events of the past few months had taught her that many times over; and now she fully accepted it.

'You look well,' she said honestly to Frodo afterwards.  'Has Sam been keeping a good eye on you?'

'Well…'  Sam blushed.

Frodo nudged him with a slight, sad smile – and indeed, there was something in his eyes now which told of great sorrow that could not be forgotten – and spoke: 'of course, Lady Mithmír, as well as he always does.'

Sam blushed with happiness.  'Well, master Frodo, you can't say as that's wholly true…'

'Knowing you, good Samwise, I am sure it is,' laughed Mithmír.  None of the three could bring themselves to talk directly of the great doing that had happened; though it hung unspoken in the air between them.  To speak of it now was too hard, for it was still too recent, and the pain of it too apparent on the hobbits' faces.  Mithmír risked a look at Frodo's hand, and noted the bandage where he had lost his finger.  She looked up at his dark eyes, and wondered at the bravery there.  He looked back at her unwaveringly, but there was little joy or happiness in his sad gaze.  She pitied him intensely.

It was then that Gandalf came and told the hobbits that they must sleep and rest.  Frodo and Sam departed presently.  Aragorn and Gimli followed to their own beds also; and soon only Mithmír and Legolas were left, quite alone, in the clearing; with the green grass below them, the growing things about them, and the stars of Gilthoniel arrayed in all their splendor in the dark night sky.  And Legolas was singing sadly in his pure voice;

'To the Sea, to the Sea!  The white gulls are crying,

The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.

West, west away, the round sun is falling.

Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,

The voices of my people who have gone before me?

I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;

For our days are ending and our years failing.

I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.

Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,

Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,

In Eressëa, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,

Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!'

But he found that his voice faltered a little, and he found it hard to say _no man can discover_, for his heart failed him.  He looked over to Mithmír, who sat where she had for all the long evening, and wondered with great sadness whether she could find longing to pass the Sea in her…

'_No man can discover_,' repeated Mithmír as if in a trance.  'Am I a Man, Legolas?'

He looked over at her helplessly.  'I do not know, Mithmír,' he replied truthfully, 'I do not know.'

'I have seen the Sea,' she said softly, and her voice mingled in with the calls of the breeze in the trees.  She seemed more Elven that ever, in Legolas' eyes.  'Once, and it was long ago.  But I have seen the grey ships, Legolas.  I have heard the call of the waves.  And do you know the greatest doom of being half of two kindred's?'

His silence begged her to go on.

'I am torn in two, Legolas.  For the Elf that I am wishes to pass beyond the Sea, and find Valinor and eternal rest…  The immortal part of me knows that Middle Earth is no longer for me – or half of me.  But I am also a Man, Legolas, and Middle Earth is as yet my beloved home, and I do not wish to forsake it…'  A single, clear tear fell from her face to the ground.  'Can I never be completely happy?  Is it my fate to wander always, to never find where I belong?'

He got up silently and agilely, and came over to her.  He sat beside her cross-legged, and reached up to stroke her hair back from her face with the utmost care.  His ears were haunted with the crying of gulls, and the breaking of waves on the shore…  He wanted so much to pass that way, so much…  'I should… I should stay for you, Mithmír.  I should remain behind and live with you as a mortal…'  His voice echoed with pain, but his mind was made up.

She stiffened under his tender caress.  'You should do no such thing, Legolas,' she said firmly, but she shed yet more tears.  'Passing beyond the Sea means more to you than a maiden ever could.'

'You are more to me than a maiden,' he said in a hushed voice that resonated with emotion, taking her hand and interlacing her fingers with his.  'Far more, Mithmír.'

'I will not let you stay, Legolas,' she said firmly, and turned her head to face him.  'I should throw myself to my death in the River Anduin, Legolas, before I let you refuse your place on a ship to stay with me.'

He was touched by her caring, but tears pricked his normally serene eyes also.  'Do you not think that you may be an Elf, Mithmír?  You are even as Elrond was, and he was given a choice…'

'Why like Elrond?'  She asked bluntly.

'You have more Elven blood in you than human, for the Dúnedain have blood of that sort as well as your mother.  You have Maiar blood also.  You fought bold in a great war.  And now… one you love passes beyond the Sea…'  He was no longer uncertain of her love for him.  'That was as Elrond; even though his love was for family.  Ask the Valar, Mithmír.  Ask them, for me and for you.  Ask them that we may not be separated…'  His eyes pleaded her.  'Do not make me chose between my people and my love, rather let them be as one…'  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead softly.  'Please, _nín meleth_.'

'Why should they listen to me, Legolas?'  She tried to quell the hope that rose in her.

'The Valar listen to all their people,' he replied simply.  'We are all children of Ilúvatar.'  He kissed her lips once, and then sprang to his feet.  She looked at him, and a great loneliness and uncertainty was in her eyes.  'Do not forget hope,' he said as a parting-note.  'And tell me in the morning if…'  He left it at that, and in a second was away, out into the forest, doubtless for a walk under the peaceful boughs.

Mithmír sobbed once, and then controlled herself.  She reminded herself firmly: _you will do _anything _to be with him…  You know you truly are more Elven anyway.  Picture a lifetime without him…  You cannot let that happen!  _She got up slowly, and then checked to make sure no one was about.  She was not sure how to plea to the Gods, and so with the innocence of the young she boldly cried out to the stars in beautiful, noble Quenya:

'_Valar most high, Elbereth Gilthoniel lover of Elves most of all, hear my plea!  You granted me the gift of being more Elven that Human.  Do not now let me be sundered from my kin.  Let me become as one with them, let me pass over the Sea to be with you on Aman…  I beg you on bent knees, do not leave me here to die the death of Men all alone!_'

And then it seemed to her that all became silent in that glade.  No night-birds called; and the leaves no longer moved in the wind.  All was still, and there was no sound but her own breathing.  She felt a great awe come upon her, and she fell to her knees, bowing her head.

She sensed, rather than felt, a figure enter the clearing before her.  It had great presence, and she knew in her heart that it was none other than Elbereth Star-kindler, who sometimes walked the realm of Middle Earth in the form of a stately queen.  There was silence for a long while, and then a voice most beautiful and yet with terrible power, spoke to her as she should never forget: 'raise thy head, half-elf, and look upon Elbereth.'

Obediently Mithmír did so.  The woman before her was taller than any other, and dressed all in lush shades of green.  In her dark hair was set a circlet that appeared to have the very stars themselves caught in its net.  Her face was noble above all else, but in her eyes there was laughter beside wisdom.  'A Elbereth!'  Mithmír said reverently in Sindarin, her eyes shining in wonder.

'Why do you call to be counted as Elf?'  Asked the queen, the Vala.

'I am an Elf at heart, Gilthoniel,' replied Mithmír boldly, her heart empowered by the awe of this Goddess.  'And more than half my blood is of that kin.'

'There is more also,' the Lady said with a smile.

'The one I love, Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil's son…'  Mithmír said.  'I do not desire to be sundered from him forever, Elbereth most high.'

'Your reasons are righteous and well-spoken,' nodded the Lady.  Mithmír noticed that the stars above her head glowed brighter than the rest, or maybe she merely saw them more clearly.  'Your love for the Elf Legolas cannot be contested; and neither can your claims.  I see your heart, Mithmír,' and the half-elf had an indescribable feeling of her heart and soul being read by the wisest of eyes, 'and you are indeed an Elf.  Your wish is granted, Daughter of Elves and Men, and the Doom of Men is lifted from you – but in doing so you also lose their gifts.'

Mithmír thought she should cry from happiness.  'I have gained a greater gift, a gift most high, from you, most wonderful of all the Valar, Elbereth Gilthoniel!'  She spoke in great joy.  'Ever shall I and my kin praise your name!'

The Lady smiled serenely.  'I see you shall keep your word, shield-maiden.  Your gift is well-deserved.'  And with that she passed out of the glade silently, her cloak of many hues flowing after her.

Mithmír treasured this experience as one of the greatest in all her long years.  She should never forget meeting, as so few had, Elbereth Gilthoniel in the woods of Ithilien; and neither should she ever forget her promise.  For her gift she was ever grateful.

***

Yay!  In the next chapter we get to see her telling Legolas…  Please review and I hope you enjoyed it!__


	40. Trust

Thanks for the reviews they are greatly appreciated!  The first story on Mithmír's past is nearly ready: I will put it up soon, I promise!

Sorry I stop writing most translations later on in this.  I am just too tired and the sentences are too complex.

Hope you enjoy it and please review.

***

Mithmír ran as fast as she could, then, to Legolas' tent.  It was darker than it had been before; and it seemed that in the normal running of time many hours had passed, instead of maybe a half of one as it had seemed with the Lady.  Mithmír's breath came fast, but it was not from the exertion: rather from joy and surprise.  She should have such tales to tell!  It seemed to her then, naïve as it was, that all her life was now decided, and it would be happy, for at that time she had all that she wanted.  In jubilation she cart-wheeled nimbly over the grass, whooping in exaltation.  She could not care that if anyone saw her she would seem childish.

Legolas' tent was a way from the others.  He had asked it to be placed far into the wood so he may be nearer to the trees.  He had tried to persuade the Men that he would far prefer to sleep outside under the trees than in a pavilion, but they had insisted on providing one anyway.  It was a dark green, and appeared but a darker shadow under the trees.  Mithmír slowed down when she got closer.  She wondered if he was inside: should she enter straight away, call out, or enter at all?

In the end the choice was made for her.  She approached the entrance to the pavilion warily, becoming ridiculously aware of the way she looked.  She wondered if a feminine dress would have been better.  Self-consciously she smoothed down her tunic and ran shaking fingers through her hair, trying to remind herself she had no need to be nervous; she had everything she wanted…

Legolas peered down from his perch in the tree.  His blonde hair fell down around his face prettily.  He watched her for a while, not wishing to alert her to his presence too early and deny himself the chance of just _watching _her, marveling at every aspect of her.  Soon, however, he had no choice but to tell her where he was, and he called out softly, 'a Mithmír!'  _O Mithmír!  _In Sindarin.

Mithmír looked up, startled, and smiled brightly as Legolas dropped lithely from the tree, landing cat-like with perfect balance.  He made no move closer to her, however: had she known it, he feared that mayhap her wish had been denied…

'I dambeth…?'  He asked with painstaking slowness.  _The reply?_

Mithmír looked him up and down slowly, her eyes aflame.  Her piercing gaze took in his tall, well-proportioned and athletic body, deceptively thin and fragile-looking, and yet strangely protective in its stance.  Legolas stood noble and still in the dim starlight as her quick gaze searched his face: perfectly formed, strong features they were; and his ever-young eyes were set in his face like the most precious of blue jewels.

'Im govannen ah arabereth,' _I met with a high queen, _she replied softly, reaching out hesitantly and taking her hand in his. 'Annahe helthanin daer ant.'  _She gave to me a great gift._

The hope that flared in Legolas' bright eyes could not be paralleled by any other.  'Hiril Gilthoniel?  Elbereth?'  His voice was deep with wonder.  _The lady Star-kindler?  Elbereth?_

'Tîr!_' right! _She said, and suddenly the emotion escaped from her in a rush.  She flung herself into the Elf's arms – and he, indeed, wasted no time in drawing her into a crushing embrace.  She turned her head up to meet his and kissed his neck three times before he could angle his mouth downwards to meet with hers in a fiery kiss – the most passionate display yet, in fact.  His long hair hung around her face as well as his like a halo of starlight – almost like the lady Elbereth's, Mithmír thought dreamily as she surrendered willingly to Legolas' beautiful, loving kiss.  Legolas knew from the slight shock in her body, that he felt through his hands on the small of her back, that she had not done this – or had it done to her – before.  He wondered at the fact that no man had before so desired her which he loved more than anything else; and kerbed his mounting desire to make himself gentle and, above all, considerate.  He decided that from then on he would court her like the high Lady that she was, and lavish all his attentions and love on her.  He wanted to make her happy more than anything…

He finally pulled away, breathless.  Her face was flushed in the moonlight, and his heart quickened to hear her heavier-than-normal breathing.  'Le bain elleth,' _you beautiful elf-maid._

'Meleth le,' she said in a half-moan.  _Love you_.

'_I will court you from now_,' he said in Sindarin.  '_If I may, I shall court you until I have won your heart and may ask to marry you…_'

'_You must ask my father for that_!'  Laughed Mithmír, barely believing what she had heard.  She had dreamed of Legolas proposing, but to have it a reality…  That was wonderful indeed…  She leaned forward and pressed hers face into his tunic, smelling the sweet elf-scent that could be found on his person.   '_Shall we tell them_?'  She asked idly, turning her head to one side so she could breath, but still leaned close to his warm, comforting body.

'_They must know sometime, but only when you are ready, my dearest,_' Legolas replied calmly, running gentle fingers through her dark hair.  '_Aragorn first though.  He shall listen.  After all,_' he chuckled lightly and the sound was like ringing glass, '_he suspected right from the beginning…_'

'_We can tell him tomorrow,_' said Mithmír drowsily, '_but no one else – yet_.'

'_I agree,_' he said lovingly, and kissed her brow.  'You must be tired,' he said, returning to Common for reasons known only to himself.  'Shall I take you back to your pavilion…?'

She blushed shyly.  'May I…  Legolas, it is a long way back, and I'm tired…  And I trust you.  Let me sleep here, in this glade with you.'  Her eyes were pleading, not only for acceptance but also for him to live up to her trust.  Legolas knew she was a virgin – how could he not after that kiss? – and he would never wish to hurt her.  He would prove to her how trustworthy he was.  He would do nothing till she was ready.  He would not betray her.

'Of course, _nín meleth_,' he said softly, thanking the Valar silently that she had such blind and faithful trust in him.  'I shall do nothing that you do not want.'

She looked at him silently for a second, praying that her trust was as well-founded as she instinctively felt.  'My thanks,' she said softly, with a slow smile that made Legolas' soul sing.  He still could not believe that her wish had been granted, that she would be his, and only his, for all eternity…  'Do you sleep inside or outside?'

'Outside, tonight, for the eve is fair indeed,' replied Legolas, taking her hand.  'You do not have to sleep beside me if you do not wish, however – there is a bed inside…'

'I trust you, Legolas,' she said with a slight smile.  'And no one shall come and stumble upon us, for we both rise early.'

'You cannot know how blessed I am for you and your trust, Mithmír,' he said almost silently.  He took her in his arms gently, and lay her down on the soft earth.  She smiled up at him almost sublimely, and then patted the ground beside her.

'Come.  Lay down beside me,' she ordered in a whisper.  'I'm cold.'

Legolas did as she bade, and then slowly – giving her all the time she needed to push him away – wound his arms around her firm, toned body.  He found it far more appealing that the willowy, weaker forms of the Elven ladies he had courted before.  To his intense joy she did not move or protest, and rather sighed in pleasure and snuggled back into him.  He breathed in the clean, fresh scent of her hair with relish.  _You are so beautiful, _was his last thought before he went to sleep, his eyes open to the vault of the stars. _I shall never, ever betray your trust._

Mithmír felt safer than she ever had, wrapped in his protective embrace.  Even the brotherly care of Faramir – she wondered absently how he was healing – could not compare to the warmth of Legolas' body behind and about her.  And the memory of the kiss…  She fell asleep with a blissful smile on her face.

Around midnight Aragorn, who had been thinking to visit the Elf Legolas – whom he had thought intended not to sleep that night – and talk with his good friend, entered the clearing.  Not finding Legolas in the tent, he passed about it to the other side.  There he caught sight of the two bodies, twined peacefully and innocently together in sleep.  Legolas' arms were around his the stomach of his lady (for so she most certainly was, or would be, Aragorn knew now and had guessed before), and one of her legs was draped back over his.  The future King had never seen two beings so completely in harmony, with no lust between them, merely unsullied love.  His mind strayed the long miles to Arwen…

'Oh what shall you do, Legolas?'  He said quietly as he silently padded away.  'Shall you give up all you have for her?'

Legolas would have.  But now the miraculous had happened, and he had no need to.

***

Yay!  Hope you enjoyed.  Please review!


	41. Kin Of My Father

Arrrgh!  I agree that this story is _sooo _long!  Glad to hear you're liking it though.

Just to point out that I follow – overall – the books over the movie.  For instance, when I read (and re-read) the books, Faramir struck me as a nice guy, so that's how he is in the story.  Also Haldir** doesn't **die!

This is another very long chapter by the way.  I hope that's a good thing!

Read, review and above all **enjoy**!

***

'May I speak to you alone, Aragorn, before we break camp?'  Asked Mithmír politely.  She tried to hide the thrills that ran through her body in quick succession.  Even under the bright mid-morning sunshine, the memory of the night before was too clear…   She smiled with a blush, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ears.  They were no more pointed than they had been before; but nevertheless the change in her was undeniable.

'Of course, elfling,' said Aragorn, trying to seem preoccupied and succeeding.  He laid down the papers he had been reading on the table, and moved over to the door, letting her out before him as was polite.  They went a little way from the camp, and then Mithmír sat down on the grass – a little unorthodox in the company of a King, maybe, but then they _were _family and very close.  Aragorn sat close by, and looked at her intently.  In the glow of daylight he couldn't picture the Elf's arms about her.  The sun also made him see her as she really was in his eyes: a mere maiden, barely above girlhood…

Mithmír decided to tackle the easier point first.  'Aragorn, _ada-nost_ [kin of my father], I have wonderful news for you!'

'What is it, _tithen elleth_ [little elf-maid]?'  He smiled politely, not wishing to let slip that he knew already – or rather, _thought _he did.

'You know as well as any other that I am half-elven, half-human,' she said slowly, trying to sort out her thoughts to some kind of coherent form.  'And I have always had… grief from that as well as joy.  When I was younger, as you will doubtless remember, I only wanted to be fully mortal – to be a mortal woman and be allowed to ride to war with you and _ada _[daddy].'

Aragorn, now baffled as to where this was going, chuckled with glee.  'I remember bouncing you on my knee, your hair flying about your pretty head – your hair was curly then, perfect ringlets like your great-grandmother's – when you were just a tiny thing!  Your parents were so proud of you…  _Are_,' he corrected self-consciously.  'And all you would say was, "Arrie, uncle Arrie, can I see your sword?"'  He laughed again happily, and Mithmír joined him.

'I had nearly forgotten calling you that… _Arrie_,' she said in mirth.  'I think I have grown out of that, however.'

_Don't ever grow out of it, _thought Aragorn dreamily.  _Stay young like you will always be in my memories of happier, simpler days._

'Anyway,' she said with a mock grimace at this sidetrack, 'as I grew older my mind strayed more towards my Elven kin.  I took greater interested in the Elves.  You know all three of my closest friends are immortal – Anoniel, Tirathnavir and Haldir.  I felt I could… _relate _more to Elves – in most ways at least.'  At Aragorn's knowing look, she corrected with an abashed grin, 'well, _apart _from my impatience, rashness, and desire to act instantly, always.  And the way I feel that rules are made to be broken.  But then another factor entered the equation –' she raised a hand to stop Aragorn's question – 'which I'll tell you about next.  But the outcome of that was…' she paused and took a deep breath, 'I asked the Valar to give me the choice of the Halfelven, such as Elrond's kin receive.'

Aragorn breathed in sharply, and the sound was harsh in the quiet morn.

'Lady Elbereth came to me last night,' she said softly, wondering at her own words even as she said them.  'And she… oh, Aragorn, she granted my plea!  Gilthoniel listened to _me_, a mere mortal – or now an Elf!'  Her eyes flashed like dark jewels, and her excitement could hardly be contained.

Without a pause, Aragorn drew her into a tight, paternal embrace.  Mithmír felt like a little girl again, and she liked it.  But even as he was muttering words of praise and joy, she began to sob.  'Why do you weep, my loved elfling, lucky one?'  Asked Aragorn with concern.

Mithmír sobbed once more, and then said in a slight snuffle, 'Aragorn… you're mortal… my father's mortal… my mother's mortal…'  Her voice cracked with emotion and realization.  'Oh, I didn't _think_, Aragorn, I'm a silly little girl-child…'  She sniffed.  'I shall have to watch you…  I shall have to live on alone as you all die.  I shall have to leave behind those I love…  Watch them go, one by one…'

Aragorn almost told her then of her father's inevitable doom, but he held it back – and also the observation that her mother could take her place on the ships anyhow.  It was the wisest thing to do.  But he had to admit his other knowledge.  'You shall not lose the one you love most of all, though,' he said softly, letting her go and turning her face up so her eyes met his.  Calloused, worn fingers stroked the hair from her damp, red, puffy face with gentleness beyond near all else.

'How…?'  Mithmír asked slowly, but the crying stopped and the sun in her heart that was hope came out from behind its cloud.  She was a small girl being comforted after falling over by the tender, protective embrace of her uncle…

'I saw you last night,' he said comfortingly.  'I wasn't prying into your privacy, don't worry.'  He brushed the worried frown-lines from her face with his thumb.  'I can see how much he loves you, Mithmír, and I know that feeling is mutual.'  He shook his head firmly to stop her replying indignantly.  'If you truly love him, Mithmír, you shall be happy to give him the greatest gift of all: _you_, for all eternity.  And eternity is a long, long time.'  He chuckled softly, and his eyes glinted kindly.  'Too long for me.  I am a Man at heart.  But somehow…' he looked at her in deep thought.  'Yes, Mithmír, you _are _an Elf at heart.  But is he the right one for that gift?'

Mithmír pulled away, and sat perfectly still, looking at him with some deep, unreadable emotion.  She remembered…

His hands taking hers…  His lips brushing skin…  The way he looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen…  The way he had sworn never to hurt her…  The way he made her feel… 

'Yes,' she said decisively, nodding her head once.  'I should give that gift to none other.'

Aragorn smiled, and the beam was brighter than Mithmír had ever seen.  'Then I wish you all happiness, Mithmír.  You shall _always _be my elfling.  But I guess I shall never see you as an old, wise woman after this!'

Mithmír got up nimbly with a laugh.  She felt normal, but Aragorn noticed that she was even more agile than usual.  'You shall have the pleasure of always seeing me in my prime!'  She replied with glee.

'Since your father is not… here,' the pause was imperceptible to Mithmír, 'would you ask Legolas to come and speak to me?'  He waved his finger in mock accusation.  'As your closest "father figure", there are some rules I need to lay down to him.'

'Of course!'  Replied Mithmír, and ran away.

Aragorn had five minutes grace before Legolas arrived.  He leaned back against a tree, and remembered Mithmír as she was when she was young…  She was always such a happy child; but he and her father had always known this choice had to be made, no matter how much her mother denied it.  She had made it well, anyhow.  He felt no bitterness as he pictured himself being old and frail while she, unchanged in all but increased wisdom, still hunted and rode and swam…  He wondered as he had so often recently if he was asking too much of Arwen.  She would lose her people and part of her identity…  And what should she gain?  The fleeting love and Doom of Men?  Even the love of a King among Men was not high enough for his Evenstar.

'King Elessar?'  Asked Legolas politely.  Aragorn looked up, and his brow was creased in thought.  A slight smile creased his lips.

'Please, sit down,' he said with an absurdly formal bow that didn't really work when the person in question was sitting down.  Legolas, feeling distinctly uncomfortable even though the man was his great friend, easily sat down tall and straight on the grass.

'You summoned to see me?'  He asked somewhat warily.

'Mithmír told me all about it,' Aragorn said bluntly.  There was no point in wasting time on beating about the bush.  'And what she didn't tell, I guessed – or saw.'  He glanced at the Elf meaningfully.

Legolas felt a rare flush rising in his cheeks.  'I swear on Gilthoniel most high, King Elessar, that I never touched her in that way…'

'I trust you, Prince Legolas,' said Aragorn, using the Elf's title in return for his own.  'I trust you as a true and loyal friend as well as a brave sword-mate.  But there is more I must ask of you.'

Legolas nodded slowly.  'For her…' he looked after Mithmír almost wistfully, 'I shall do anything you ask.'

'You must understand, Legolas.' Aragorn said somberly, feeling like an idiot.  He was the Elf's _friend_, not his father.  He tried to relax.  'She is much younger than she seems.  She grew up as a _mortal_, not an Elf. She may be a shield-maiden but her heart is as vulnerable as anyone else's.  I ask you to look after her, to cherish her, to never lie to her or do anything behind her back.  Treat her like the Lady of high birth that she is.  When all her family have passed away, I and her parents, then you shall be the only one to care for her.  It is a great responsibility; but one you shall gladly take on if your love is true. This is the first time she has loved, Legolas: I am sure it is not so with you, but swear to me that this is no game?'

'I swear it,' said Legolas, angry at even the idea that he may be acting his affections for the shield-maiden.

'That is well, for I would not have her heart broken so young,' said Aragorn almost wearily.  'She means so much to so many, Legolas, more than her or you can ever understand: take care of her well for all of us.  As you gain her we lose her; not to meet even after this life; separated to the very end when we all meet before Eru…'  His eyes were sincere and concerned.  Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder and looked straight at him:

'I shall do as you say, as it is also what my heart dictates to me,' he assured him boldly.  'She means more than all of Arda to me, Aragorn – that you know, I think.'

'I guessed before, and now I know for sure.'  Aragorn smiled wryly.  'And if you do care for her so, Legolas, may I ask you a favor as a friend?'

'Of course.'

'There is news of her father which she shall find hard to hear…  I wish for you to know it, so that there may be two of us to comfort her.  She loved' Legolas noticed the past tense with a tinge of shock 'her _ada _[father] greatly; more than I remember my own relationship with my father being – more, indeed, than any other such relationship I know of.  She loves her mother too, of course, but they are not very similar and have never been as close.  And now, Legolas, we shall have to help her through the loss of one she loved dearer than any other…'

And so he explained to the sorrowful Elf the truth of Mithmír's father; and Legolas learned that he should not ever be able to ask the brave Ranger for his daughter's hand in marriage.

***

I have depressed myself again…  Ah well, at least most of that was happy!  Hope you enjoyed it and please review.  I will put more up tomorrow night.

-- Annaicuru


	42. Brother vs Lover

Sorry if this chapter isn't very long, I had a very busy night tonight!  Please R&R

***

And so they returned to Gondor, and Aragorn was crowned King of that fair country, and in looks he suddenly became even as the monarchs of old, proud and noble in his bearing.  For many days Mithmír was separated from him for he was very busy putting the city in order.  She missed greatly being denied the chance of congratulating him, but tried to put it from her mind.  It was partly because of that,  that on the first morning after their arrival, she made her way to the Houses of Healing.  Legolas had been acting her shadow since they left Ithilien, for reasons she could not discern.  She had finally shaken him off, however, leaving him to talk to Aragorn – as a member of the Fellowship, _he _was allowed to meet with the King, much to her disgust.

Mithmír entered the hall that lead to the Houses.  The air was cooler in there, and she breathed deeply.  The corridor was empty; and her soft steps made no noise on the stone flags.  She paced silently down the way, and opened the wooden door at the end sharply, stepping in nimbly and closing it behind her.

She was instantly besieged by a rather round, portly woman wearing a healer's apron around her waist.  The woman prodded her sharply with her toe, seeing as her arms were full of baskets.

She looked at Mithmír oddly.  'Would you be so kind as to help an old woman carry these stores of healing-weeds – _athelas, _or so the King calls it, though it's Kingsfoil to you and I.  We've collected so much of it since we learnt its properties!'  She dumped well over half the baskets in Mithmír's arms.  A potent woodland scent reached her nostrils, and she thought of Legolas with a faint smile.

'Follow me to the store-rooms,' ordered the woman haughtily, completely oblivious – or uncaring – of the fact that she addressed a well-renowned warrior so brashly as an inferior girl.  Mithmír did so, perplexed, and when she arrived laid the baskets down carefully where the healer asked.

'Where is my father?'  She asked politely afterwards, trying not to lose her temper and gritting her teeth.  The woman – Rekara, as she introduced herself – ignored the question and continued to sort out the baskets with vigor.

Mithmír repeated the question, an edge entering her voice.  She did so until Rekara turned around, a frown creasing her sun-tanned features.  There was also an odd feeling in her eyes that made Mithmír's stomach clench unnaturally: _pity_.  Mithmír resented pity at the best of times, and it induced anger in her, but rarely fear as it did now.  'Where is he?'  She asked, and to her shame her voice wavered.

Rekara moved forward somewhat jerkily, as if unsure of herself, and embraced Mithmír closely and maternally.  She pulled away slowly after she realized Mithmír was as cold and immovable, as lacking in life and emotion, as a statue.

'I…' she said hoarsely, 'I thought you knew…  I was told that you knew, that you were told…'

Mithmír felt something inside her break.  It was as if her heart had been driven through with some cruel blade, worse than any Morgul knife.  To Rekara, it appeared that her eyes suddenly misted over, their deep brown shade becoming more grey, more _dead_, as if life and the ability to love fled from therein.  Her mothering instincts were now fully awakened, and she tried to hug the girl again, but Mithmír pulled away.  She turned slowly on one foot, her mind and soul in turmoil, her entire world turned up-side down, but she looked as calm and collected as ever.  She began to walk away slowly; showing no emotion, until when, seconds before she left, she could hide her feelings no more.

With an almost animal cry of rage and pain she lashed out at the stacks of supplies to her right, sending valuable piles of healing-weed, salve and bandages flying.  A basket landed at Rekara's feet, and instinctively the old woman knelt down to pick it up, her mouth in a wide "O".  When she looked up, the lady-knight was gone.

Mithmír was blinded by sorrow and anger greater than she had ever know.  No tears showed in her eyes which were now dull and shadowed.  She ran through the Houses the way she had come, roughly pushing away any healer who tried to stop or slow her.  She didn't hear their shouts, only the painfully-slow beating of her heart, which pounded in her ears with all the force of a drum…

She ran out of the Houses of Healing at full-pelt, and dashed through the city with incredible speed but little or no grace.  Her breath was harsh and ragged by the time she reached the Citadel.  The guards got up to stop her entering, but she mindlessly and viciously kicked one in the groin and nimbly dodged the other's grasp.

She did not have to search long to find the object of her chase.  Legolas was standing in the far right corner, looking out the window towards the Sea with a deep wistfulness in his eyes.  She ignored it.  'Legolas Greenleaf!'  She cried out in a cracking voice.  He looked up instantly, his eyes wide with surprise.

'She may enter these halls, Guards!'  He ordered with great force.  The two pursuing men stopped their chase instantly, looking puzzled.  Legolas, however, had no confusion over the nature of Mithmír's anger.  He could see the great depth of pain in her eyes, and could almost _feel _the agonized beating of her heart, the wordless scream of her soul.  He opened his arms to welcome her into his embrace, to tell her _why _they had kept it from her, to make it all right: he hated to see her like this so much, the guilt was making him feel so bad for her…

Mithmír hit him like a charging Oliphaunt, barreling furiously into his chest.  With a cry of surprise he fell over backwards, and she landed on top of him heavily.  He looked fearfully into her eyes, and the _thing _that stared back at him was wild with rage.  He could barely recognize his Mithmír, his loved one…

Mithmír felt like a fire was burning in her, roasting her slowly…  She felt a great, almost physical pain all over her, her chest was tight and made breathing hard.  But she didn't, _wouldn't_ cry.  She began to punch Legolas' chest, shoulders and stomach, but it was like her fist were moving through water, and they hit him with little force.  Legolas, his instincts of self-defense coming to the fore, rolled over with all his strength, pushing her over so she was beneath him and he locked her hands down over her chest.  She looked up at him angrily for a while, but suddenly her gaze softened, blurred by tears.  She began to cry softly, beautifully, as Elves cry.

'Why didn't you tell me…'  She said in a choking voice as she wept, her voice beseeching him for an explanation.  'I have lost him forever, Legolas.  You cannot understand…' her body heaved under his in a violent shudder.  'We can never meet again, Legolas, don't you see?  _Never_.  There are no timeless halls in Valinor for mortal Men.  If you had even told me even two days after the fighting, I would have been here in time, I could have said _goodbye_…'  Her face creased in grief inconsolable, and Legolas began to cry also, his pearl-drop tears falling onto her face below his.

'You are right, Mithmír,' he said with great sadness, 'you are right, I did not understand the parting of Men…'

'I knew that you had a secret,' she said hoarsely.  'I saw the way you looked at me…  But _this_?'  She beseeched him.  'I have lost the man I loved most of all, Legolas.  I have lost my _ada_[daddy].'  Her gaze was hollow, and the look scared him.  'He died without me.  When he needed me most, I _was not there_…'  She sobbed again.

'Forgive me, _nín meleth_ [my love],' he pleaded her, leaning down and kissing away all the tears on her cheek.  'Forgive me…  Again I deserve no more than your hatred, but I beg you, let me make it up to you…'  He kissed her lips roughly, praying for forgiveness.  'Please…'

Mithmír shed a single tear more.  'I lost my father, Legolas,' she said numbly, 'and I gained you…'  She fixed her eyes on him in a look that was horrifying in its sadness.  'I do not know whether my… "choice" was right.'

Legolas felt like his world was being ripped away.  He let out a hoarse cry.  If only he could turn back time…  'I _will _make it up to you, Mithmír!  I can never bring your _ada _back, but I am sorry… so sorry… forgive me, my love, forgive me, I cannot live without you, I should have told you…'  He held her close and sobbed into the hollow between her shoulder and neck.

'And this is how you show your "love"?'  The voice was Faramir's, long unheard to either Elf, and the hatred in it was clear.  Legolas moved a little to turn his head, and Mithmír caught sight of her long-missed friend behind them.  She nearly cried out in joy.  'You show your love by hurting my sister so?'  He grabbed the Elf's shoulder and dragged him to his feet roughly.  Legolas did not resist, as he was too shocked to.  Faramir then drew Mithmír into a protective embrace, kissing her brow softly, and whispering comfortingly.  She did not move.  The emotions running through her were too strong.  She did not know if she could love Legolas anymore.  He had denied her the last days of her father's life and their time together, and her father had been the whole world to her…

Faramir glared at the Elf accusingly.  'Get away from her,' he said quietly but harshly.  'Go.'

***

Sorry about the random ending.  Any suggestions appreciated.  Please review!

-- Annaicuru


	43. Explanations

Thanks for all the reviews!  I have re-read Tolkien's notes on pronunciation, and as far as I can tell (this matches with my previous pronunciation anyway) "Mithmír" is pronounced _mith-meer_ with a slightly longer "_i_" sound than normal, note the "_ee_".  That might be wrong, though, so all corrections welcomed.

Sorry but there'll be no chapter up tomorrow night.  There should be one on Saturday, though. 

Please read, review and enjoy!

***

Legolas went numb with pain and horror.  He stared with wide eyes at his loved one, his Mithmír.  The comforting arms about her weren't his own as they should be, but those of another man: and be he a brother to her or no, that made jealousy flare in the Elf.  Worst of all were Mithmír's eyes: the surrender in them was absolute, as if she no longer cared what happened to her, and was prepared to let all her decisions be made by others.  He silently willed her to regain the headstrong spirit which he so loved her for.

'Did you not hear the words of Gondor's steward, Elf?'  Asked Faramir coldly.  Mithmír realized with a jolt that she hated his; seeing the two men she loved most – after the death of her father – arguing.  Even her feelings for Aragorn could not rival her intense emotions for these two men.  And here they were, fighting over _her_...  It was as if she was stricken dumb, however, and she could not move or intervene.  A fair crowd was fathered about them now, watching.

Legolas spoke with quiet urgency directed only at the woman so close to him and yet out of his reach.  'Mithmír.  I would never, ever hurt you.  I swear to you, _nín meleth, _I didn't know about your father till it was too late, and then I was bound by oath not to tell you…'

'I said _go_!'  Shouted Faramir, quivering with rage.  He loved Mithmír so much, and he had sworn to himself that he would protect her from all harm.  He would keep his word.

Legolas ignored him, though he was painfully aware of the guards approaching menacingly.  He thought quickly: _where is King Aragorn when you need him…?  Aragorn!  That was what he needed to win her back…_

'Aragorn knew, and it was he who told me, Lady!  Your father _told _him not to tell you, Mithmír!  Your father loved you above all else and did not want you to go through the pain caused by watching him die.'

She knew instinctively it was true.  Her father had always been that way: brave, caring and self-sacrificing, always looking out for her first.  She sobbed out loud again, recalling once more how totally she had lost him, now that he was an Elf, and he would never know…

Faramir felt her shudder in his arms.  The movement could almost shatter his heart.  This willful but vulnerable girl held more sway over his heart than any other, except Éowyn.  Thinking of that, how would he tell Mithmír of his new-found love?  It was a problem for later consideration, he decided.

He misinterpreted her newly shed tears for those of grief.  Really they were born of realization, acceptance, and sadness only for the ills now being done in her name.

'If you cannot follow my orders and leave here, Elf, I will have the guards escort you!'

'I can go myself,' replied Legolas, as calm as ever.  He looked once more at Mithmír, the gaze as lingering and physical as any caress.  'Ask King Aragorn, Lady.  He shall tell you the truth of it – if you still have any doubt in your fair heart.'  He bowed deeply and then, with a dismissive nod to the guards, walked out quickly.

Mithmír watched him go.

'Are you alright, my dearest sister?'  Asked Faramir with great concern replacing anger in his gaze.  He turned her around in his arms.

'What do you think, Faramir,' she replied with a tiny flicker of humor.  Then the tears came again.  She nestled up against her great friend, seeking any comfort she could find.  'Did he die peacefully?'  She asked with great worry.

'Yes,' Faramir said truthfully, rocking her slowly in his arms.  'And boldly also.  He wished you all the happiness and love in Arda.'

She smiled weakly.  'Then I must be brave too, and make him proud of me.  It's almost easier to bear, knowing that he made the choice for me not to be told.'

'You believe _him_?'  Asked Faramir, indicating after the Elf.

Without a moment's hesitation, Mithmír replied, 'yes'.

Faramir looked at her in confusion.  'But I thought…  The way you attacked him…'

'Grief.'  She explained simply, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and silently promising, _I'll make you proud, daddy dearest._

'Then he really is your… your… lover?  He did not lie?'  He was half-jealous, half-proud.  It felt odd picturing his sister-friend in the arms of that haughty, cold-seeming Elf.

Mithmír's smile was stronger now, and she pulled away to stand tall on her own two feet.  She was a survivor, after all.  'Legolas Thranduil's son does not lie – and especially not to me.'  She winked cheekily, and no tear escaped her eye.  'I acted rashly and without thinking then.  It's my fault you misinterpreted it.'  She blushed.  'Really I don't blame him.  I _will _talk to Aragorn about it, but nevertheless…  He did not lie.'

In that second Faramir realized his mistake, and that he was in the fault for the resulting showdown between himself and the prince.  'O, Valar!'  He cursed.  'Am I always this thoughtless and rash?'

'No,' replied Mithmír firmly, her mood improving fast.  She wondered where Legolas was.  She wanted to talk to him badly. 'But you _do _owe Legolas an apology – as do I.'  Her eyes were fry now.  She had finally accepted her loss, though not yet fully come to terms with its full impact.  That event was a long way yet.

'I beg you, sister, talk to me after you have finished with Aragorn,' pleaded Faramir.  'We have not met for so long, and as brother and sister we have much to tell each other…'

Mithmír laughed a little, though she choked on the sound.  _Save your tears for when you are alone, _she reprimanded herself.  'We shall talk over lunch, then.  But first I ask you a favor: could you _please _get me a meeting with Aragorn?  It need not be long, but I should like it to be now.'  She smiled faintly.  'They will not let _me,_ a lowly maiden, see him on my own.'

Faramir frowned.  'I shall have to see to "them" and tell them the truth of the matter,' he said in a gruff voice, before cheering up.  'But yes, of course you can see the King.  He should be free now – it's mostly paperwork that he's doing now.'  He made a face.  'I am glad I am a Steward and not a King!'

'And I am glad for that also,' said Mithmír inexplicably, her eyes unfocused as she thought of her love and the pain she had made him feel.

***

Hope you enjoyed it and please review!  I am trying to write the first chapter of those short fics on Mithmír at the moment…  I am experiencing really bad writer's block, though, and it might be a while.  :-)


	44. Bread In Soup

So Mithmír's talking to Aragorn…  Can't wait till it's Legolas she's talking to…

This chapter is slightly uneventful, but you need to know the plot so the next chapter makes sense.  I'll write more tomorrow.

Hope you enjoy and please review!

***

She was led into the Meeting Chamber of Gondor by Faramir.  Inside was Aragorn, and he was alone, pouring over tomes of knowledge and laws of the City.  He looked up when he heard them, and a smile broke out on his face.  He looked benevolent and wise.  Mithmír instantly recognized her as the man she had known and trusted for all her life.  She walked briskly over to him and embraced him warmly; looking up at him from the comfort of his arms.

'You should never keep secrets from me, Aragorn,' she said in mild reprimand.  _Don't cry_, she reminded herself sternly, _don't show that weakness._

'What secrets, exactly, did I keep from you, elfling?'  Asked Aragorn nonchalantly, though his ruddy skin blanched.

'Don't lie either,' she said, trying to clear the odd cracking from her voice.  'I found out about… _ada _[daddy].'  It was as if saying the word had an instant effect on her, and suddenly she was crying again, wetting the King's rich tunic with her tears.

'Oh, my lovely, my sweet-daughter,' soothed Aragorn; his loving face creasing into the sharp contours of all-too-recent grief.  He held her close and tight, kissed the top of her head lovingly, and his eyes met with Faramir's over her head.  'Who told her?'  He mouthed silently.

'She went to the Houses of Healing,' Faramir replied in the same manner.  He was feeling a strong impulse to go and comfort Mithmír also, but he was wise enough to realize that this time belonged to her family, namely the King Aragorn.

Finally Mithmír pulled away, and rubbed her bleary, red eyes.  She smiled weakly.  'You're meant to have told me _first_, Aragorn.'

He took both of her hands in his and clasped them firmly but not too tightly.  'I see that now,' he said softly, 'but I had to keep my word to your father and my dear friend, Dîntir of the Dúnedain.'  He shrugged apologetically.  'He did it for you, Mithmír.  For _you_.  You were the starlight to him…'  He smiled a little.  'You were _everything_.  Would you want me to betray his wish to you?'

She blinked a few times.  'No.  Of course not.  You are forgiven, my King.'  She curtsied inexpertly.  Faramir and Aragorn exchanged indulgent smiles over her head.

'My thanks, Lady,' said Aragorn, bowing in return.  'I did at least bid them to keep the funeral-boat till you arrived…  Your father has been laid in his casket, but they waited for you to set him upon the Anduin.'

Mithmír nodded bravely, gulping to hide her sob.  'That was kind of you.  May the ceremony be this eve, at twilight?'  She noticed Aragorn's odd look.  '_Please_, Aragorn.  It is important to me.  Herimle.'  _I beg of you_.

'Of course, my little elfling,' he said kindly, squeezing her hands once more before letting them go.  'I shall ride out to the river bank with you in an hour so we may be ready.  The boat has been long finished in Osgiliath, so we shall launch from there – if it pleases you…?' 

'It does,' she said with a slight smile.  'But may I also decide who rides with us also?'

'Of course,' Aragorn agreed easily.  'But I ask you first – allow all his friends, the Dúnedain, to accompany us.  They loved him nearly as dear as I.'

'Of course,' said Mithmír with a slight smile, enjoying a fleeting memory of happier times – though what or when those times were, none on Middle Earth now know, but perhaps there was one Elf that she later told.  'You should come, my dear uncle.  And Faramir also, as Steward and my brother.'  She looked back and smiled over her shoulder at the man, who was blushing with pride.  'And may I also ask…' her cheeks coloured to a rosy pink, 'that Legolas Greenleaf comes with us?'

Aragorn stifled a chuckle, trying to remember that he too had been young and unsubtle once.  _You still are_, he reminded himself chidingly.  _Not young, but unsubtle.  _'Of course, my Lady,' he said gravely.

A flicker of hope; a hope and desire that even she would have denied; appeared fleetingly in the girl's eyes.  'Is my… is my mother here?'  She tried to sound careless, but with a flash of inspiration Faramir silently realized her feelings.  They were so typical and normal that it would not be expected of her to harbor them.  She had lived her entire life trying to please a mother that, though she loved her daughter dearer than all else, had never quite been happy with her own status as a mortal – or her child's.  Mithmír desperately wanted to prove her worth, as a mortal or no – though that was wrong now, even if he did not know –.  He felt a surge of pity for her.  He learnt new things about her every time he met her.  Aragorn felt it too, and he replied slowly and with care.

'Nay, lass.  Your mother could not reach here in time.  We gave her no forewarning, and Imladris is many days' journey away even by the standard of Elves.'

Mithmír looked crestfallen for a second, but assembled a mask over the emotion quickly, as if she had had much practice.  'Oh.  Well, it's a long way.'  She smiled bravely.  'I go to lunch now – I'll see you in an hour.'  She hugged him once more – so tight she looked almost as if she were trying to hold together the pieces of her shattered heart – and then, with a cry of farewell, left the Hall.  Faramir, with a bow to his King, followed after her.

***

When Mithmír told her _gwador _[brother] of her meeting with Elbereth Gilthoniel, and of the granting of her wish, he promptly dropped his bread into the soup.

'Are you joking with me, Mithmír?'  He asked, incredulous, retrieving his now soggy bread.

She motioned for him to keep his voice down, but an excited and proud smile tickled the corners of her mouth.  'I am not lying to you!'  She assured him happily.  'The Star-Kindler came to me and granted my wish.'

Faramir's eyes went wide and he swallowed his mouthful of boiling soup in a rush.  'You're an Elf then, my sister?  My little Mithmír, the shield-maiden, an _immortal_?'  He looked at her ears critically – they were certainly not any more pointed than they had been before.  'I have never heard of such a thing happening before.'

'It has,' Mithmír said with confidence, 'but it's rare.  Very rare.  But I made the _right choice_, Faramir… didn't I?'  She pleaded for reassurance.

He realized how vague and unsupportive he had been.  Spontaneously he leaned over the table to draw her into a bear-hug of such love that it almost forced all the air from her lungs.  When he finally moved away, he said with a chuckle, 'that's wonderful, Mithmír!  I wish you all happiness for your new life as an Elf!  Though I cannot say I will be comfortable with being an old man while you are still young and deliciously beautiful.'

She blushed and stared at her empty bowl.  'It won't be a new life, just a… fresh chapter of my old one.  And I'm not beautiful, Faramir, you know that.  Especially not for an Elf,' she added with a slight huff.

'_I _find you beautiful, so you must be,' replied Faramir firmly, finishing the last of his soup with relish.  'And Aragorn does also.  So does your father.'  He waved away Mithmír's corrections.  '_Does_, Mithmír, not did.  And also,' he winked at her slyly, 'I'd wager a fair amount of coin that the Elf Legolas finds you attractive too…'

He had hit a nerve as he intended, but far from making her annoyed she blushed all the more.  'I don't think…'

'Of course he does,' Faramir said in a matter-of-fact tone.  'Don't hide it from your loving brother – I won't get _too _jealous.'  He laughed out loud.  'I feel terrible for attacking him back there…  He must be nice, in fact, _incredibly _nice, for him to meet _your _standards.  Why,' he said with a cheeky grin, 'even _I _didn't qualify to have you, and that's something!'

Mithmír laughed and punched him playfully.  There was silence for a while as they left the dining-hall and walked out into the bright sun of the City streets.  Mithmír breathed deeply.  A great weight had been lifted from her ever since that final battle against Sauron.  The effect of the victory was evident everywhere, in fact: the smiling faces of the children – now mercifully returned to their home – shone joy about them, and the cries of womenfolk in the streets were proud and beautiful.  She looked at Faramir for a while; and noticed – she had been so wrapped up in her own problems before that she had not looked at him carefully – a great change in him, and one for the better, or so it seemed.

Never one to beat about the bush, she said bluntly, 'what has made you so wonderfully happy while I was away, brother?'

He looked at her.  The time had come to tell her of _his _accomplishments…  It was a wonder, indeed, that she had not heard of them already – the rumor of him and the lady of the Mark was running rife through the City.  'You are not the only one who has gained, Lady,' he said with a slight smile.  'And your beloved Elf is not the only man to have drawn a shield-maiden to him, and to feel blessed for it.'

Mithmír was on him in a second, hugging him close, and asking many questions that were barely decipherable from her praise and exclamations of joy.  She spoke fast and loud when she was particularly moved, and so it was now.  Faramir was forced to pin her hands to her sides before she calmed down enough to ask coherently, and somewhat accusingly, 'and who is it?  And why haven't I met her yet, Faramir?'

'Her name is Éowyn of Rohan, Mithmír, and she is all the world to me.'

Mithmír felt no jealously.  She knew her feelings for Legolas somewhat excluded Faramir also, but her love for the Man was still ever as strong.  She embraced him spontaneously again.  'And the answer to my second question?'

'Let her come to your father's funeral, Mithmír.  She was in the Houses near your father and talked to him often and at great length.  Then you shall meet her.'

'Alright,' Mithmír said, squinting a little in the sun.  'I had better meet this girl who's stolen your heart from me!'

***

Please review!


	45. Forgiveness

Thanks for the reviews.  Glad to hear you're enjoying it!  The stories on Mithmír's past are _on the way_, I promise [embarrassed grin].  Just a little while…

Hope you like it and please review.  Sorry it's a bit on the short side.

***

She left Faramir then; asking him to summon the Lady Éowyn while she looked after some "business".  Faramir knew she meant Legolas; but wisely he didn't say anything.  Mithmír's shame at her previous behavior was apparent.

While Faramir made for Éowyn's chamber, Mithmír hastily turned for the direction of Legolas'.  She had a gut feeling that he was there; despite his normal preference for the outside.  A worry for him was eating away at her heart; and she was in a great fear that the damage she had done to him was irreversible, that they could never regain their former closeness.  She broke into a run soon; and by the time she had reached the house where he was staying – not the same one as herself, but close enough – even she was mildly out of breath.  She mounted the stairs two at a time; catching a fleeting glimpse of the bewildered head-servant of the house.

'I am Mithmír,' she called out for his benefit, though doubtless it meant nothing to him.

The door to Legolas' room was oaken and not overly ornate.  She caught herself just before she collapsed onto it; and counted to ten breathing deeply.  Subconsciously she tucked her hair neatly behind her ears, and checked her tunic was on neatly.  When she was ready, she knocked politely but firmly and loudly on the door.

Inside, Legolas stood up off the bed with a jerk.  'Who is it?'  He asked, while he hurried to check that his eyes didn't show the signs of recent tears too clearly.  They didn't; and his pale ivory skin looked just as smooth and perfect as normal.  He found himself wondering if Mithmír preferred the tanned complexion of Aragorn; but then he remembered the way she had muttered in her sleep that night in Ithilien: _so beautiful, such a beautiful, pure, white elf…  _And it had been about him, he was sure of it, and rightly so.

'Mithmír,' she replied, and added quickly – as much to reassure Legolas as the servant who was bearing down on her accusingly from the other end of the corridor – 'I came to speak with you, Legolas.  May I come in?'

'Of course,' Legolas said with only a flicker of emotion; perhaps hope.  He watched expectantly while the door opened.  Her eyes were bright again, he noticed.  They were no longer red and swollen; though the sorrow was still lodged firmly in her gaze as it met his.  She smiled a little.  'Sit down,' he said politely, and did so himself.  She sat beside him but subconsciously far from him so nearly half the bed was between them.

They didn't speak for a long while.  Mithmír found the deed of swallowing her pride nearly more than she could bear.  Finally, however, she managed it.  'I talked with Aragorn, Legolas.'  One of her hands reached across uncertainly to touch his gently.

'You did.'  He said, a statement only, not responding to her caress.

'He told me what happened.  You spoke the truth.'

'I know.'  He felt an idiot for behaving so icily, but he couldn't help it.  Her anger at him had hurt him deeply.

'I'm sorry,' she said in a rush, and then, 'I love you.'

He forgave her instantly.  How could he not as she leaned towards him and kissed him with all the passion and apology in her heart?  He responded almost greedily, moving his hands up to cup her face and hold back her hair.  The kiss became deeper and more heated as her mouth opened in a slight moan of pleasure, the sound sending vibrations into his own mouth.  Mithmír moved her hands to his shoulders, stroking them lovingly, feeling it the most natural thing in the world to be this way.

_Ada _[daddy] _would love to see me this happy, _she thought blissfully, before allowing herself to be swept away by the kiss.

He finally pulled away a little, and she would have been disappointed, but he moved only to trail a necklace of gentle kisses around her neck.  She shivered, unusual and unrecognized sensations running riot through her body.  Legolas noticed and pulled away totally, reminding himself mentally, _be slow.  Don't hurt her and don't scare her away.  She is young.  _'My lovely elf-lady,' he said with a slight smile, and then hugged her close.

She was flushed and her breath a little forced.  She smiled too, though, and then said dreamily, 'I love you, Legolas.  Will you come with me tonight, to…' she gulped, and reminded herself, _be strong_; 'send my father on his funeral-boat down the Anduin?'

'Of course,' he said, smoothing her hair down comfortingly.  'Of course.  I shall always be there for you.'

'I am glad,' she said truthfully as they left his room, ignoring the gawping servant and the reality of the rumors he'd spread in a matter of hours.  'I couldn't do it without you, Legolas.  I can't be _whole _without you.'

'I am nothing at all without _you_, Mithmír,' he whispered so quiet she couldn't hear.  'Don't ever leave me to become a no one.'

***

Hope you enjoyed it and please review!


	46. From The River To The Sea

There is very, _very_, **_very, very _** mild, implied slash between the elves Tirathnavir and Haldir in this chapter.  It's **nothing**, really.  Please don't flame – if you don't like it, don't read it.  This mention of her Elven friends from Lothlorien will be fully explained later when she finally returns to the Golden Wood.  Basically (and this will be explained in one of those short stories when they're _finally _up!) she has always known they liked each other – elves are very accepting of different sexualities – but neither have, as of yet, admitted it openly to the other.  That comes later.  :-)

Please enjoy and review.

***

He looked so peaceful, lying there, the dear _ada _[daddy] she had always loved.  His hair had the same hint of a curl, his face the same smile-lines, and his eyes – could she see them – would have been just as wise, she knew.  He wore his best tunic, and his hands were laid over his chest.  He was finally peaceful…  Mithmír realized death could not be as bad for the deceased as it was for those left behind. It was they who bore the long sorrow.  She noticed, pleased, that Dintîr's sword Náring, _Cold Fire_, which had stayed by his side all his long life, retained its accustomed position at his side; the blade glinting – almost like her _ada_'s eyes had, she thought wistfully – in the failing sun.

She was the last one to stand by his body before it was sent out into the swift current of the Anduin; the last one to pay her final respects.  She could not find words to explain the myriads of feelings that her soul was screaming out; but she kept the weakening, betraying tears at bay.  Instead she knelt beside the slim, beautiful boat, not caring that the wet earth muddied the knees of her dress – for she had, as she did once in a blue moon, put on a gown.  This one was green and flowing.  Legolas liked it; though he cursed himself for thinking of such trivial things at such a time.  His heart yearned for the bent figure before him; for her vulnerability and the sorrow that, though she tried to hide it, obviously threatened to tear her in two.

Oblivious to all of these thoughts, and those of the other men (and woman, though she hadn't talked to Éowyn yet), Mithmír laid her head on the icy cold chest of the body before her, and her arm cradled her dead father's hand.  Her eyes were stony and all emotions were hidden; but inside she was agonized for this final, irrefutable proof of her father's death: the motionlessness of this _corpse_; the lack of breath and heartbeat.  'I love you, _ada_,' she whispered almost silently.  The churning roar of the Anduin whisked her words away, perhaps to where her father now walked, if Ulmo so wished it.  'I will always love you.  You were my first love, and the only one that shall last all of my long, long life…'  She half-laughed.  'For I'm an Elf now _ada_!  Can you believe it, your little grey stone, an Elf!  And Legolas Greenleaf, Sindarin Elf, Prince of Mirkwood and Thranduil's son wishes to court me and maybe marry me.  And _ada_,' she added somewhat uncertainly, 'I think…  I think I really _love _him, _ada_.  Like Tirathnavir and Haldir do each other; how you love _naneth _[mother].  I finally know how you all _feel _towards your beloved now....  But at least I admitted it to him, unlike Tirathnavir and Haldir to each other.'  She smiled a little.  'I think I will marry him.  I _know_ you'd say yes.  And Aragorn will look after me, like he always does.'  She stroked his cold cheek.  'And you will too, _ada_, from wherever you are.  We will _never _be totally apart.'

She stayed there for a second longer, and then stood up briskly.  She turned around to the others, and began to speak the words Aragorn had hastily taught her, but with her own variations.  The speech was rather short but to-the-point and heartfelt.

'Here is a great man, a Dúnedain, true to his people and true to his beliefs.  He died in combat with valor even the great Tulkas [a Valar] exults.  He lived with the sword Náring by his side; and died likewise.  He has passed as he lived; and that is no thing to be ashamed of.'  Her eyes swept the crowd.  All heads were bowed; and there was some weeping.  Legolas was, as she noticed with gratitude, on his knees in the manner of mourning Elves, and tears were in his eyes that looked towards the Sea to which the river would take her father's body.  She continued in a firmer voice, 'he shall be dearly missed by all those assembled here today: friends, companions, family, or all three, as applies to King Aragorn.'  She smiled to her uncle, whose frown lifted momentarily.  'Our lives were touched by his, as a blessing from the Valar, and they shall never be the same again.  We have only thanks for him.'  And then she sang in a voice which was strong if not beautiful, moving if not overly dainty.

'_Alnallon an fern;_

_Sennui no-gelir e cuin meduiannan,_

_A ammen anna-meleth.'_

_Do not cry for the dead;_

_Rather be happy that he lived once upon a time_

_And to us gave love._

Then she bowed her head, and in the silence cried out once, '_Im meleth ada!_'  _I love you daddy_!'  And then she turned and gently slid the beautiful boat out into the current.  Her eyes followed it down the swift way of the river; and only when it had carried her beloved father out of sight over the horizon did she allow herself a heart-wracking sob.  'May the Sea welcome you and carry you to Ilúvatar, _ada_, for you deserve it more than any of us,' she whispered to the water.  Sudden gusts of wind blew up, as they often did in that land, and they made her hair whip dramatically around her face which was outlined against the sinking sun that glared red behind her.  She looked as fair and desperate as the Elven maids of old, her pose defiant and yet despairing, her face striking and – to a certain Elf – arousing.  Silently Legolas wondered if every man felt her sexual allure as strong as he did.

He didn't wait for Aragorn to go to her, as it would have been polite to.  In stead he got up and ran over to her himself.  He caught her supple and yet surprisingly feminine body in his arms and drew her in close to his body.

'Nín meleth, nín meleth,' _my love, my love_, he murmured in a comforting monotone, running gentle hands over the small of her back.  'You are so beautiful, you did so well…  He must be so proud of you…'

'I know,' she said with a slight smile, almost imperceptibly wiping her eyes dry on his tunic, hoping he wouldn't mind.

Legolas gripped her tight once more, wishing he could hold her even closer still…  Her naïveté was frustrating but wonderfully attractive too.  He sighed; reminding himself that the best things were worth waiting for.  And he would wait for _her _till the end of the world, never demanding of her what she would not give willingly.  Finally he let her go.

'Lady Mithmír…'  Said a female voice behind Mithmír.

Mithmír turned around.  The woman before her had long, golden hair that was slightly wavy and moved a little in the wind.  She wore a dress too, and looked equally as uncomfortable in it as Mithmír herself.  Beside the woman stood Faramir, looking like the cat who got the cream, smiling both proudly and happily; and all the while obviously desperate for his sister's approval.  'This is the Lady Éowyn, my sister,' he said boldly.

Mithmír curtsied a little, and Legolas – taking his place by her side just as Faramir was at Éowyn's – and bowed smoothly, nodding his head deeply to the Lady Éowyn and glancing apologetically at Faramir.

'I have long wished to meet the maiden who stole my brother's heart from me,' said Mithmír far more jovially than she felt.  She wanted to be alone– why did they all have to be here _now_?  'You live up to even his tales of your beauty!'

Éowyn blushed and smiled at Faramir with laughter in her eyes.  'Faramir most definitely exaggerates about _me_, Lady Mithmír, you needn't lie about that.  But you are as wondrous and fair tongued as he always says.'

It was Mithmír's turn to blush now.  She couldn't speak, however, before Legolas did: 'she is  fair indeed, Lady Éowyn.  The Steward Faramir speaks only the truth of you also, however, whatever you may say.'

'You must be the Elven warrior, Legolas Greenleaf,' said Éowyn with a smile.  'The tongues of Elves have always been sweetest in the ears and hearts of Men.'  She nudged Faramir.  They had obviously been talking of the argument that had occurred between Mithmír's closest.  'Don't you have something to say to this Elf, Faramir my love?'

Faramir looked once at Mithmír, who nodded encouragingly, and then cleared his throat.  'Prince Legolas,' he began politely and genuinely, 'I wish to apologize for being so rude to you earlier today in the Hall.  I misinterpreted Mithmír's actions towards you; and grievously misjudged the situation.  I acted rashly and with great ignorance.  I would that you forgive me.'

'Your apology is accepted as one between the greatest of friends,' said Legolas lightly, smiling bright as was the way of the Fair Folk.  'For so we are, as brother and…' he paused for a second and looked at Mithmír with love in his eyes that nearly pierced the elf-girl's heart, '… beloved of the same fair lady.  Anyone could have made the mistake, and indeed, I have behaved ill recently.'

Faramir smiled gratefully to Legolas as Éowyn and Mithmír shared a happy grin.  'My thanks.'  He then turned to Mithmír and leaned forward to kiss her one the cheek lovingly, whispering for her alone as he withdrew, 'he will always love you with all his brave soul.'  Mithmír was thankful for his words, and nodded to him; though she never found out whether he meant her father or Legolas.

'We must make for the City,' said Éowyn suddenly.  'I don't mean to be rude, but it's getting dark, and even with the Dark Lord overthrown, I should not wish to be out on the Pelennor at night.'

Mithmír looked at her sidelong as they made for the horses, her to Brialvastor's dim form in the fading light.  'I love night riding, lady Éowyn.  It is invigorating and exciting.'

'Then you share my own view!'  Said Éowyn with a pretty chuckle.  Mithmír resented the all-too-happy sound, but tried to ignore it.  'It is Faramir who said those words to me, and _almost _persuaded me that they were my own thoughts.  He is far too protective of me.'  She smiled at her love warmly, before swinging nimbly up into the saddle.

'You are like me indeed then!'  Said Mithmír when she too was mounted on Brialvastor and had greeted him in Elvish.  'We are both shield maidens and as wild as the horses, as free as the eagles…'  She chuckled a little despite herself.  'And as untamable, headstrong and impatient!  On another day I shall have to become more acquainted with you.'

'Indeed you are the same in many ways,' agreed Faramir as they began to ride away.  'And indeed there is also a better time for this.  I will ride ahead with Éowyn,' he said with a meaningful glance to Mithmír, 'and Legolas may talk with you as Elves are wont – most probably of the stars,' he said with a gay laugh.  'And may he raise your spirits too.  The others are all far ahead of us, following Aragorn, already nearly back at the City.  We may catch them up.  I shall see you tomorrow, my sister, and you, Legolas,' he nodded his head to both of them and then urged his mare into a gallop.

'Farewell!'  Cried Éowyn with laughter in her voice before following.

The Elves did not talk to each other till their friends were well out of hearing; riding in silence, but closely, so their horses' flanks were nearly together, and their riders' legs rubbed at every movement of the animal beneath them.

Legolas was wiser than to ask her if she was alright.  'I love you, Mithmír,' he said simply, 'and so does your father.'

Then they rode in silence again, till they reached the ruined Gates of the White City, whence after a quick kiss they left each other.

It was in the dark night and she lay in a cold bed alone, her arms wrapped about her legs so she was curled in a ball, her head under the covers so that no one could hear her sobs…

***

Hope you enjoyed it and please review!  Thanks for all the reviews I've had so far by the way, you guys are **great!!!  **(Did I make that clear enough? LOL)


	47. NONSTORY QUESTION FOR READERS

Thanks for all the reviews! Another chapter will be up tonight I promise. I have a question to ask though: should this story end soon (i.e. one or two chapters) and have a sequel or should it just be very long? Either way the same writing materiel and plot will be used. Your comments are welcomed! In reply to the idea that Mithmír seems to be acting younger; that is explained in the next chapter - which may or may not be the final one. Basically since Legolas is so much older than her the closer she gets to him emotionally the younger she seems to feel… Don't worry it's resolved. Thanks! Annaicuru


	48. Morning

Thanks again for all the reviews!  The majority of you said you wanted there to be a **sequel**, so that's what you'll get!  THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER OF "**THE DAUGHTER OF ELVES AND MEN**".  This title doesn't really apply for the Mithmír in the sequel.  After you have read this chapter, hopefully you will be able to have a vague guess about what will happen at the beginning of the next story…

Hope you enjoy it and please review.

The next story should be up either very soon after this chapter or tomorrow night.  The title is at the end of this chapter; but you can also read it (when it's up) by searching under **Annaicuru**.

This chapter is very, very long – over 2,500 words which is a very scary thought (where did I find the time to write that???) – and would normally be posted as two separate entries; but I decided against it.  I don't think this chapter is as good as it could be, but it's possible I'm just nervous because it's the end of the story.  Comments and suggestions are welcomed!

***

When Mithmír awoke she threw open the curtains first as she always did, ready to bask in the rising light of the sun.  She had found a greater joy in just being _alive _as an Elf than she ever had had as a mortal.  Humans, she realized, did not have enough time in Middle Earth to appreciate the wonders about them.  Elves, however, could and did.  She noticed with a puzzled exclamation that the window was wide open; and her quick reactions were tested as something fell – or rather, was thrown – from outside.  She grabbed it, and suddenly her heart took a leap.

On her palm rested a beautiful grey stone, polished to perfection, wrapped about with a bright green leaf.  The symbolism was made clearer – though she already understood it well enough – when a piece of paper fluttered down after it.  On the paper was written in perfect Sindarin Tengwar, _Laeg-lass a mith-mír_, which means _green-leaf and grey-stone_.

'Im estel laeg-lass gar-mith mír an-uir,' _I hope the green-leaf shall have the grey-stone_ _forever_, said a soft voice from outside; a voice that Mithmír knew all too well.  Feeling like a silly maid-child with her first crush, she replied in a nervous voice,

'Legolas?  Legolas, hennaid,' _my thanks, _she said in a soft, shy voice.  'Minno.'  _Come in_.

Seconds later slim elven fingers appeared on the sill, and Legolas pulled himself up easily.  Mithmír took one arm and drew him into the room with a smile.  She felt like what she was doing was forbidden – she was in another family's home, after all –; but it gave her a rush that she could not help but enjoy.

'Lín pedpeth bain,' _your words are beautiful_, Mithmír said with a blush as she somewhat awkwardly closed the window behind him.  Internally she debated whether to close the curtains; but she decided against it.

Legolas' eyes had skimmed her body up and down nearly six times before she realized, with a slight gasp, that she was only wearing a skimpy under-shift as she had to bed the night before.  Noting her discomfort, Legolas – the perfect gentle-elf – picked up her discarded red cloak off the floor where it had been dumped and wrapped her in it.  He winked cheekily.  'You are beautiful indeed, Lady.  Would that I could see you so every morning for all eternity; and have you bed beside me every night…'  He smiled a little, and leaned forward to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek.

Mithmír hugged her arms around herself, suddenly aware of the disorganized state of her room.  'Excuse the mess,' she said apologetically.  'I've been so preoccupied…'

'Don't worry,' Legolas brushed off the apology like water off a duck's back.  'In fact, please allow me to help you clean it.  I have nothing to do today…'  He bent down to pick up the green dress which lay disheveled on the floor; but Mithmír laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

'Legolas, _nín meleth_ [my love], you are a Prince and this is no work for you.  Let me do this.  Surely Gimli shall speak with you while I tidy here?'

He turned his head up so that his piercing blue eyes locked with hers firmly.  'I want to talk with _you_, Mithmír.  Gimli is my greatest friend but you… you need me now.'  His gaze showed a compassion that surpassed all else except maybe Aragorn's.  'And I need you _always_.'  He got up quickly before she could question his words.  'Surely there's a maid somewhere near who can clean this chamber; while I take you out for some well-deserved relaxation.'  He kissed her thrice rapidly, cheekily.  'Please come with me today, Mithmír.'

She was already half won-over.  'But I said I'd meet Éowyn,' she said somewhat lamely.

'We can meet Éowyn and Faramir for luncheon, if it pleases you, before they leave for Rohan,' said Legolas indulgently.  'But please, Mithmír…  See the sky out there?'  He pointed out of the window to the blue expanse not marred by any grey clouds.  'It's the most beautiful day since the War.  Let it be _our _day.'  He grasped her hand tightly and brought it to his satin lips, kissing it as if she was the most precious and delicate thing in his world; all the while searching her eyes with his.  'Please.'

'Of course,' she said suddenly, decisively and with a wide smile.  'No man has ever climbed through my window before.  The event must be celebrated…'  She took her hand from his gently.  'But first _you _must either go out or turn away while I dress.'

'Maidens and their modesty!'  Laughed Legolas joyfully, trying to look annoyed and not succeeding in the slightest.  He turned to look out the window, leaning up against the sill leisurely.  The day would be wonderful – if only she knew his plans!  He resisted the temptation to turn around and marvel at her fierce beauty, and instead struck up conversation: 'do you know why Aragorn keeps us here?'  The question had been preying on his mind for a long while.  He was loath to leave the City and the Fellowship; but there were many places he wished to see, and he missed his father and kindred in Mirkwood; and also feared for them, for there was news of many skirmishes on the borders of the great forest. And yet also he feared to go, for maybe if he left the shield-maiden who had captured his heart would refuse to follow…

'My uncle has his reasons,' said Mithmír in a muffled voice as she pulled the dress over her head.  Secretly she wondered what had got into her – she wore dresses more often than ever now, and she had strange desires to show off the feminine curves of her body which she had before disregarded.  Legolas made her more aware, and even _proud_, of her status as a woman.  He taught her that she had to accept both her roles: as a fighter and a woman, not merely a fighter.  He had showed her, slowly and wordlessly, that she could be a soldier and female, and they need not take turns in her.  'I think I know those reasons – you are an Elf, Legolas, surely you of all people can guess why he stays.'

'Does it have anything to do with the Lady Arwen?'  His eyes sparkled with knowledge, and his mouth curled as if trying to resist a smile.

'I think so.  He loves her.'  She laughed a bit as she put on her shoes.  'He whispers her name in his sleep; over and over and over...  Maybe…' she stood up and began to brush her hair vigorously, 'they plan to marry at last.  Maybe Lord Elrond has finally decided that the King of Men is worthy of the Elven Evenstar.  I hope so.'

'As do I,' agreed Legolas thoughtfully.  'Summer is a wonderful time for marriages.'  He waited, trying to sound nonchalant, for her response.  Silently he berated himself for letting the point slip – he had meant to not bring on _that _subject till much, much later in the day.

Mithmír felt her breath catch in her throat.  She was silent for a long while, absently putting the two plaits into her hair that she had worn since the battle before Mordor when Legolas had first helped her tie them.    It seemed that this time, this single moment, was what all her life had been leading up to…  'Indeed…' she said haltingly, putting a light hand on Legolas' shoulder and turning him around slowly until their eyes met.  'I think it is.'  She could not bear the tension for long however, and suddenly broke out, 'I hope Faramir takes Éowyn's hand this year.'  She felt like a child: she looked at her beloved Elf and saw thousands of years; pictured herself, barely two decades old, and saw the difference with almost tangible pain.  She turned around, putting her back to him.

'He deserves to be so lucky,' said Legolas softly, hurt that she had moved away again as if the moment had never been.  'They will be very happy.'

It was quiet for a while, only the dim sounds of breakfast being served coming up from downstairs, and then suddenly Legolas could not hold himself back.  'How long would it be till you married if you were still mortal, Mithmír?'  He burst out in desperation.

'I am only a little over twenty,' said Mithmír slowly.  'Maybe this year, maybe the next.  Some maids – but they are rare – would already be married by my age.'  Her eyes lost their focus, and she said distantly, 'I didn't think I would ever marry…'  Then she looked at him; and he perceived that her normally calm eyes were possessed with a great uncertainty; and in a second she was burrowing into his protective embrace, feeling it the most natural thing to do.  'Doesn't it scare you, Legolas?  Am I the _only_ one to fear marriage?  Eternity is a long time to spend with someone if your choice is incorrect about whom you marry.  I love you, I _want _to be your wife, I _want _to be only yours, but I feel so young around you, I feel like a child…'

'No_-_dínen,' he said softly, realization rushing into him, and an intense wish to banish his beloved's fears.  _Be silent.  _He kissed her forehead in an almost fatherly way.  'Mithmír… I will never make you do anything you don't want to, do you understand?  I _love _you.  There's no other woman I want but you, Mithmír.  Today…' he paused awkwardly; and then decided that it was now or never; 'today I planned to ask you to marry me and become my wife…' he continued quickly despite her slight gasp, as if unbelieving of what he'd admitted and wanting to make her forget it.  'But if you feel too young I will wait for you till the ending of the world if necessary.'  He blushed.  'We've barely known each other for a few _months._  I'm acting rashly and immaturely, I know, but I want you so badly to be always by my side...  I feel like I've known you all my life.'  He laughed once, almost despairingly.'This isn't how I imagined it to be, when I told you how much I love you… Please don't say I've hurt you, Mithmír!'  He said, concern edging into his voice at her shocked silence.  'I just want to make you happy and I can't seem to do anything _right_…' he ended in frustration that was unusual in the calm, collected Elves.

It was as if someone had returned a part of her which she had never known she lacked, but which made her _whole_.  A warm surge of love swept over her, from the tips of her pointy ears to her legs, tight against his.  Her relationship with the Elf had been leading to this point always, she knew, and she was glad.  She realized it was all she wanted, all she had ever desired.  Her romance with him hadn't been perfect and straightforward, like the love-tales of stories were; there had been ups and down, tears and kisses in equal weight; but nevertheless it seemed more _real.  _He had been there through good and bad alike, proving to her that he was not only by her side in fair weather.  She turned her head up to him and nuzzled her face up to his.  She was ready: for once in her life she felt completely prepared and at peace.  'I love you too, Legolas Greenleaf,' she replied softly, her lips brushing his skin, her soul joyous at the sight of his unfolding, incredulous smile.  She wanted to be able to see his face every day, she realized, be with him for every emotion.  'And I will spend all of eternity with none other than you.  Now I am an Elf,' she said in an odd voice, as if still coming to terms with the fact, 'I shall be young  in body forever.  But you don't need to wait for me – your words have given my soul the confidence it needed to grow up…  _You _have helped me grow up…'  She breathed in deeply, aware that she was about to make the largest decision in her long life, trying to steady her nerves.  Her heart and soul knew what she wanted; and in the sudden rush of adrenaline that this knowledge gave her she said breathlessly, 'I love you, Legolas, and I would that _we _were the ones wedded this year…'  And it was with those simple, naïve words that she gave her soul up to him, the only man she fully trusted with it.  As she leaned forward into his chest, she felt she could almost hear her beloved father's voice – or maybe it was merely her own mind playing tricks on her - saying happily, _now I am gone you need another to turn to, and here he is… Do not grieve for the loss of a father, rather celebrate for the gain of a husband, Mithmír.  Be strong, and live for the future.  _She realized with a blissful sigh that he – or her constructed memory of him – was right.  Her _ada _would not want her to stay in mourning for him.  He was at peace, wherever he was, and now it was her duty to make him proud of his only child…

Legolas felt like he had been given his own star and allowed to hold it in his arms.  His soul soared and his heart leapt with joy.  He covered her face, neck and ears with silent, passionate kisses, trying to find the deep moans that aroused him so much.  He wanted to join her to him forever so they could never be separated…  'I love you,' he said breathlessly between kisses.  'I would never… ever… have any other woman by my side.  _You_, Mithmír the wild shield-maiden, the Elven Dúnedain, are the only woman I should ever have as my wife, no pampered Elven princess…  I swear to you that you shall not regret this greatest of gifts that you have given me.  I will never hurt you or betray you or lie to you…  I love you so, my elf-lady, my Silfëa [_shining spirit_]…'

Mithmír felt like she was drowning in turbulent emotions – none of which were regret.  She knew she had made the right choice.  She had been destined to make it, after all, ever since she asked Elbereth Gilthoniel for her immortality.  Her fear was not gone wholly, but she was wonderfully aware that now she had someone who should be by her side to save her from that worry, to make everything alright, and it gave her hope.  She was no longer a girl but a _woman_…  'I don't have to be afraid anymore,' she said in a voice deep with passion and realization.

'You don't have to be afraid anymore…'  Agreed Legolas, hands running down her back softly, caressing her lovingly as his tongue coaxed her mouth open.  'The green leaf shall wed the grey stone and so be made complete.  She shall have everything she desires… and never, ever be made to weep.  I can't promise you eternal happiness in every aspect of your life, Mithmír Silfëa, I'm no Valar to proclaim such things.  I am only a Sindarin Elf.  But I _can_ swear to you that I shall do everything -' he paused to kiss her again – '_everything _I can to make you as happy as I can.'

'It is all I ask, Legolas,' she said huskily, pushing him away momentarily to stare at his large, intense eyes.  'I could not love a even Valar as I love this Elf.'  She stroked his shoulder, fingers as light as falling leaves in autumn.  'I am not flawless myself.  I cannot love a perfect being.'

'So you should pick a severely flawed and unworthy Elf instead?'  He asked cheekily, eyes glinting in play.

'You are most worthy of all, Legolas,' she whispered.  'Your flaws… I have yet to find.  And when I do they will make me love you more than ever.'

'Then you will marry me this summer, Lady?'  He asked reverently.

'Do you swear to me – _swear _to me, Legolas – that you will always be there for me?  That you will never cage me or tie me down?  That you shall love me all the more for the way I am, and not try to change me?'

'Yes.'  He said plainly with baited breath.

The way became even clearer to her then.  This was an adventure as any other; a voyage over the horizon, not the end but a better beginning.  She may be afraid now, but that fear could be turned to courage; and then nothing was beyond her.  'Then I shall grow up, Legolas, and marry the prince of Mirkwood who stole my heart and soul one night under a mallorn tree.'

With the words to explain his emotions deserting the normally articulate Elf, he replied in the only way still open to him.

They left the chamber bare minutes later to spread the joyous news.  All that saw them on that day and those following perceived the light that emanated from them; a visible sign of inner well-being and content great enough to near bind two souls as one.  They appeared as the High Elves of old in their happiness; their voices rising in joyful duet above all else; their eyes joining across a crowded room with a secret message shared only between the two. So much had happened so quickly, it was nearly unreal.

Never had the Daughter of Elves and Men imagined that her life could be so perfect; or that a green leaf could save her.

***

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing; I hope you enjoyed it!  Please review with any comments or suggestions – as I said before I feel this chapter is in need of some revision.

_Trenarn o laeg-lass a mith-mír _[the tale of green leaf and grey stone] is continued in my next fanfic, "**All Rivers Flow To The Sea**".  


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